


taste your beating heart

by cnomad



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood Magic, Canon-Typical Violence, Emissary Stiles Stilinski, Emissary in Training Stiles Stilinski, Insecure Stiles Stilinski, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Minor Allison Argent/Isaac Lahey/Scott McCall, Mystery, Nemeton, POV Stiles, Pack Building, Pack Dynamics, Post-Season 3A, Sheriff Stilinski's Name is John, Slow Burn, Spark Stiles Stilinski, Stiles-centric, Stilinski Family Feels
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-02
Updated: 2018-02-06
Packaged: 2019-02-09 10:30:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 43,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12885951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cnomad/pseuds/cnomad
Summary: Something is wrong in Beacon Hills. Derek was halfway across the country when he felt a call to return to his hometown, and somehow Stiles has been talked into letting the werewolf stay in his guest bedroom. This can lead to nothing good.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this title comes from florence + the machine's lyrics in "howl." thank you to [tattooedsiren](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tattooedsiren/pseuds/tattooedsiren) for being my beta throughout all the time i've worked on this fic. she is the literal best!

He got the call from Isaac of all people.

It wasn’t that they weren’t friends. It was just that they weren’t…not friends. They were nothing to each other, really. Mutual acquaintances that went through some crazy supernatural shit together once upon a time and shared a broship with the one and only Scott McCall. But it was a little different, the relationship between childhood best friends versus the relationship between an Alpha and his beta.

A little more different too, when Stiles added in all the lingering touches and heated stares that Isaac and Scott _and_ Allison all shared with each other when they thought no one was looking. And Stiles wasn’t—looking, that is. He wasn’t judging and it was none of his business, but it was hard to miss when he went from feeling like an equal part in a conversation of all single people, to suddenly being heavily aware of the fact that he was the awkward out-of-place fourth wheel on a carefully constructed tricycle. There was no room for him and so he stepped aside more often than not, gave them all a little space to try and figure their shit out without feeling like their every move was being watched.

So, he was home alone, not unusual these days, half-heartedly playing a computer game that he had stopped being interested in two weeks before but hadn’t found the time to replace it with something new yet. It was almost a welcome distraction when his phone vibrated beside him.

There was a moment of hesitation when he saw that it was Isaac’s name on the screen. Not because he didn’t want to talk to the guy or because he was holding any animosity against him, but because he knew well enough that the only time Isaac called him was when some bad shit was going down. The last time they’d texted was the night of the ice baths and the storm and the wreck that caused more than a little damage to his Jeep (but at least he no longer had to lie to his dad about how the damage came to be which made getting it fixed so much easier). It was a night they normally didn’t talk about.

Or at least, Stiles didn’t talk about it with them. That didn’t mean that they didn’t talk about it with each other. That didn’t mean Lydia didn’t talk about it with Aiden. It was just Stiles who chose to be silent on the whole ordeal, preferring to keep everything closer to his chest than he ever had before.

But his phone was ringing and it was incessant, so clearly it wasn’t the type of call where Isaac was willing to give up after the third ring went unanswered. Which meant that it was Important with a capital “I”. So, he paused his game and took a deep breath before tapping the screen and bringing it up to his ear.

“Yo, Isaac, my wolfy man. What can I do for you this fine February afternoon?”

“He’s back.”

It was like all the air rushed out of him in that moment.

It was no surprise. Stiles had been waiting for this call for over a year. Since the moment he’d heard that Derek and Cora had locked up the loft and driven away from Beacon Hills. Scott had been a little more skeptical, a little more naïve, talking about how he hoped they’d find peace elsewhere and maybe make a life for themselves in a town that wasn’t so filled with deep rooted pain.

But Stiles and Derek were two sides of the same coin, they were cut from the same cloth, they were every other cliché out there for two people who made the same mistakes over and over and over again no matter how many times they fucked up.

Derek would come back, because it’s what Stiles would’ve done. After the initial rush of getting out of Beacon Hills had slipped away, after the months of telling himself “it was all for the best” had grown tired, he would have turned around and headed back. Because…because Beacon Hills was broken but it was home. It was tragic but it was where happiness had once overflowed. Because it was the only place in the world he could ground himself in the memories that were beginning to fade with the physicality of the town around him.

Stiles was always hit with the same three sensations when he walked into the local grocery store: the rush of cold air from the overused air conditioning, the crackling sound of the aging PA system that played the most current pop hits, and the ghost of his mother’s hand on the back of his head as she guided him into the store to gather the weekly groceries.

He wasn’t willing to give that up, no matter what happened in this town. Werewolves could come and hunters could follow and kanimas could turn and druids could sacrifice and all the while, he would stay. Round and round the bend he’d go, unable and unwilling to get off the ride before he was ready. And he didn’t think he’d ever be ready.

Derek was like that. He could run and he could drive and he could walk and he could hide, but he would always come back home.

“Stiles?”

He fumbled to turn down the sound, startled by the sheer volume of Isaac’s voice.

“Yeah, I’m here,” he said. “Where are you guys? Want me to come meet you?”

There was a pause, some muffled voices in the background and he was suddenly acutely aware of the fact that somewhere in town all of his friends had gathered together and he wasn’t with them. It cut him, reminded him of the awkwardness that had set itself in the foundation of all of his relationships these days: he didn’t quite fit in anymore. There was a brief window of time when he and Lydia were connected in their utter humanity. No super strength, no generations of hunting, no blazing eyes or magic hands or lizard skin. It was…nice. There was a real sense of solidarity in being the only two normal humans in a group full of supernatural badasses.

But then Ms. Blake (he could never quite get the hang of calling her anything else) started sacrificing people and Lydia started finding dead bodies and then it all came to a screeching halt with a single word: _Banshee_. Now she was a supernatural creature in her own right, with an ex-lizard now-werewolf ex-boyfriend and a currently Alpha werewolf boyfriend. It got a little ridiculous whenever he laid it all out like that, but it was the truth. They were friends now, bonded together for life most likely, but that didn’t mean they’d taken to eating lunch together every day and braiding each other’s hair. At most they waved across the hall, occasionally discussing the math homework from the night before, until Aiden came up and dragged Lydia’s attention away and Stiles returned to his notebook, not bothered enough to try and pull her back.

Because here’s the thing about being in a werewolf pack: everyone doesn’t suddenly become best friends.

That didn’t mean it hurt any less.

He sighed, “Isaac? You still there?”

The voices stopped, and he heard some shuffling and he knew the phone was being passed off to someone else. He held his breath when a new voice came over the speaker, “Stiles?”

The relief was instant.

“Oh,” he said. “Scott, hey buddy. I was just asking Isaac—whaddya need me to do?”

“Nothing. Well—,” Scott said. “Something, obviously, but nothing that requires you to physically do something. Just, Derek’s back.”

He stared at the computer screen in front of him that had been dim for the past few minutes. He knew if he didn’t slide the cursor soon his computer was going to fade to black, but he didn’t move to do anything. He liked to wait until the last possible second. Test himself to see how good his timing was.

“Yeah, Isaac said. I told you he would. You owe me a slurpee. I’m thinking Blue Shock.”

He heard Scott chuckle on the other end of the line and it was like he’d reached through the phone to grip Stiles’ heart in his hand. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d made Scott laugh, but that didn’t make any sense. Things were better now.

“Sure, Stiles,” he said, in the same tone he used when Stiles crooned lovingly to his Jeep. He smiled at the sound, leaning back in his computer chair as Scott went on. “But first— _we_ need a favor.”

And it was the emphasis on the “we” that sent him reeling again. That feeling of exclusion that he knew was crazy. He knew, logically, that Scott wasn’t trying to say anything more about the “we” other than the people he was with. There was no distinction between pack and _not_ with Stiles and Scott. They were brothers. Best friends. Packmates. But somewhere in the darkest recesses of his mind, Stiles felt the needy desperation clambering to climb out of his stomach.

His throat was tight when he spoke, “Yeah? Lay it on me, dude.”

“Derek doesn’t have a place to stay, and we—” there it was again. The “we” that sent a chill running down his spine. “—were hoping you could convince your dad to let Derek stay with you guys? I’d have him stay with me, but my mom has enough trouble feeding me and Isaac I don’t think she could handle a third—”

Scott cut himself off before Stiles could say anything and there was a clamor of noise. A high-pitched keen filled the air and then a softer voice.

“Hey, hey, Isaac, that’s not what I meant,” Scott whispered from somewhere across town but the words were deafening in Stiles’ room. “You’re not a burden, you’re wanted, okay? My mom loves having you with us. I love having you with us. You’re…”

The words faded as Scott’s voice got softer, and he continued to watch the screen in front of him. It was still only dim. There was still time.

The phone was picked up again. “Sorry, sorry. Stiles, you still there?”

“Yeah, man, I’m here.”

“Anyway, like I was saying. Two teens in my house is more than enough, and obviously, the Argent’s place is out of the question because of the history Derek has with them.”

He heard a snort come from somewhere behind Scott and he silently checked off the confirmation that Allison had been there the whole time.

“And we’d ask Lydia, because her house is so big, but her mom doesn’t really know anything about all of this and plus Lydia has her own history with the Hale family…”

Which was what caused him to sit up and ask, “Speaking of—not that I’m saying no or anything but, what about Peter? Why can’t Derek stay with him? And is it just Derek or is Cora with him?”

His curiosity always got the better of him.

“Just Derek. I haven’t spoken to Peter since everything went down. Derek said he tried to get in touch but Peter’s phone is out of service. None of us can scent him out and Derek gave up his loft ages ago so that’s out of the question. Really, it’s just, you know, you.”

“Or a hotel,” Stiles said.

There was another snort, this one a little louder and clearly more masculine. His heart tripped as he realized that Derek had probably been listening in on the whole conversation. Judging Stiles even though they hadn’t spoken since the night in the hospital.

There was some jostling again, and this time it was Allison’s voice on the phone.

“Right,” she said. “Because it won’t look totally weird for a bunch of high schoolers to show up and visit the grown man who looks like he belongs in a motorcycle gang. Everyone will think he’s a drug dealer.”

“He’s still got that leather jacket, then?”

“What do you think?”

He hesitated, ready to spout whatever colorful excuse he could think of but not quite able to make himself say the words. He just wanted to be alone, to figure his shit out, and not have to be _Stiles Stilinski_ all the time. But Scott needed him. And if Derek was back, it must be for something important.

“Fine,” he said, sighing in his usual over dramatic flair. “Send him my way. It’s not like he doesn’t know where I live.”

He hung up and went to move the cursor only to watch the screen switch to black.

Late again.

***

He didn’t know why he was surprised when he heard the doorbell ring. It wasn’t like Derek was a fugitive anymore. He didn’t have to go sneaking through bedroom windows when the cops weren’t out for his blood. Nobody thought he was dead. Dad even knew the truth about werewolves. There was nothing to hide from. Derek got to be just as normal and courteous as any other person intruding on Stiles’ space for an indefinite period of time.

It didn’t take long for him to get downstairs, but it did take him a while to open the door. He knew, obviously, that Derek was on the other side of the piece of wood, and that he could probably hear Stiles’ heart and hear his breathing and that he knew he had been coming to let him in the moment Stiles got out of his computer chair. But.

He just needed a second to gather his courage and prepare himself.

It wasn’t like he and Derek were ever friends, but they had saved each other from death more than once. That bonded people. Made them care. At least enough to feel the sting when finding out the other person had left town without even saying goodbye or checking to make sure you were okay.

“Stiles, open the door.”

He sounded the same, unsurprisingly.

It had only been a year, so what had he expected? For Derek to return sounding decidedly less growly? Unlikely.

“Welcome to my lovely abode,” he said, swinging the door open, forcing a smile. “Feel free to make yourself at home, since apparently, this will be your home until…when exactly?”

Derek didn’t answer, choosing to brush past Stiles with his usual sense of grace and gentleness.

“Ah yes,” he muttered. “There’s the Derek we all know and love. Broody and silent and oh so familiar.”

He closed the door and locked it; his fingers so much more used to the act than they ever were in the pre-werewolf years of his life. Back when he left the front door unlocked so Scott could run right in if he wanted and his dad would yell at him whenever he would get home.

When he turned around Derek was looking at him.

“So,” he said, lamely. “How’ve you been?”

“Fine,” Derek said.

He waited for Derek to say anything else, but the werewolf was silent.

“Right, okay,” he said, the words rolling off his tongue slowly. “There wasn’t much time between me agreeing to do this and you showing up for me to ask my dad if it was okay. Though to be fair, I probably wouldn’t have asked him yet anyway. I’ll wait ‘til he gets home and you’re already all settled in. It works better that way.”

Derek parted his lips, almost as if he wanted to say something, and Stiles’ chest felt tight with impatience. But Derek closed his mouth and looked away without a single word.

So, it was up to him to do all the work.

“Scott didn’t give me too much information so—where _is_ Cora?” He was tentative. A little afraid to ask the question because with Derek, who knew what the answer could be?

Derek seemed to sense Stiles’ hesitation and answered, his voice rough from underuse, “She’s fine. I left her back in New York. Last we spoke she was considering heading down to Argentina.”

“Last you spoke?” He repeated. “Is this a new development or are you telling me you left her back in New York a while ago and not just for this trip?”

The set of Derek’s eyebrows seemed to say it all.

“Shit,” Stiles groaned. “I thought you were off bonding with your rediscovered kid sister and now you’re telling me—what? You two parted ways months ago? Be honest, Derek, how long after you both ditched here did you ditch each other?”

“It wasn’t like that,” Derek growled.

“No?” Stiles said, his jaw decidedly tense. “Is this a pattern of the Hales, big guy? Tell me something, Derek—is Cora going to come after you only to find your body in pieces? _Why are you here_?”

He heard the crack of his shoulder hitting the wall before he felt it behind his back and realized that Derek was holding him there.

Well, at least this was familiar.

“I don’t think you have any right to talk about my family and bodies in pieces,” Derek said, his voice pitched low and his eyebrows drawn tight together. He could see the hint of a fang peeking out against Derek’s bottom lip. “Or did you conveniently forget how you dug up my sister and had me arrested for her murder?”

_Fuck_.

There were a lot of things that Stiles liked to pretend had never happened. Dad not being at the hospital when Mom died was one of them. The time he’d seen Mrs. McCall putting on makeup to cover a bruise on her cheek was another. But the time he had convinced Scott it was a brilliant idea to go looking for half a body, and then to dig it up like it was their next big adventure, was at the top of the list.

There were nights when Stiles couldn’t sleep, because all he could see was Laura’s dead eyes staring up at him. Her cut-in-half body that had been carefully wrapped in tarp with the hair brushed out of her eyes and the burial site circled in wolfsbane. That alone should have been enough to make him feel like shit, but there was more.

More, like the knowledge of Derek driving into town after not having heard from his only surviving relative for days. There was this image in his head of Derek running through the woods, confused and terrified by the fact that Laura’s scent—her _blood_ —seemed to be all over the place, until he’d found her body in pieces. But it’s what came next that breaks Stiles: the understanding that Derek must have gathered Laura’s severed body in his arms and dug her grave, probably with his own claws, to bury her with a tenderness no one thought Derek Hale capable of.

Some nights all Stiles could think of was Derek, alone, with burnt hands wrapped in wolfsbane, holding back unshed tears as he gave his sister and Alpha the burial and respect she deserved.

Only to have a couple of teenagers dig her up like she was nothing.

_I’m sorry,_ he wanted to say. I’m sorry for what I did and how I took your loss and twisted it into a puzzle to piece together. I was wrong. I fucked up. You deserved better. Instead he said this:

“I think I can say whatever the fuck I want when you’re staying in my house and endangering me and my dad.”

He pushed Derek away from him, both surprised and not to find how little force Derek had actually put into his threatening stance. He straightened his shoulders and stepped towards the middle of the room.

“So, how about you answer my question and tell me why you’re back in town?”

He doesn’t know what he expected, but Derek pushing past him to march up the stairs fit pretty well within the carefully constructed version of Derek he still had in his head.

When he heard a door slam shut from somewhere upstairs, he shook his head to himself.

“Guess he figured out where the guest room was.”

***

He was working on his chemistry homework—the new teacher was almost as much of a hardass as Mr. Harris, except he hated Stiles a little less—when Derek opened his bedroom door and leaned against the frame.

“What?” he asked and turned his attention back to the problem in front of him. “I’m working, leave me alone.”

He could almost feel Derek shrug from across the room.

“Fine,” Derek said. “I just thought you might want to know your dad just pulled up in the driveway.”

He heard his dad opening the front door almost immediately after Derek had spoken.

“You couldn’t have given me more of a heads up?” he hissed, jumping up and frantically pushing against Derek’s chest to shove him into the hallway.

Derek glared. “I was taking a nap.”

“You take naps?”

Derek looked ready to respond, when his dad called up the stairs, “Stiles? What’s for dinner, buddy?”

He didn’t know what to say and Derek was hardly making it any easier as he gesticulated angrily. His eyebrows seemed to be demanding Stiles to say something, but since he was a real human boy and not a wolf, he chose not to respond to Derek.

“Son?” Dad said again, his voice a little shaky. “Dinner?”

He tried to ignore the knot in his stomach as he tripped over himself to calm his dad’s fears. “Derek Hale!”

There was a moment of silence.

Derek looked ready to maul him and he could feel his cheeks heating up with embarrassment. Stiles pushed his way out of his bedroom with Derek close behind.

Dad was coming up the stairs, talking, “Was _Silence of the Lambs_ on last night? Because otherwise I don’t quite understand.”

He stopped when he reached the top of the stairs and stared at Derek and Stiles standing in front of him.

“Surprise,” Stiles said. He raised his hands in a pitiful attempt at jazz fingers before his arms fell back to his side loosely. “We’re having Derek Hale for dinner. And for a little while after that. He’s basically staying with us for the foreseeable future.”

Dad had the same look on his face that he’d worn when Stiles had brought home a dead raccoon when he was six and asked if he could keep it.

He’d thought it was a puppy, okay? It wasn’t his fault.

The silence seemed to be never ending until Derek finally stepped forward, holding his hand out as he said, “Good evening, sir. Thank you for letting me stay here when I had nowhere else to go. I, uh,” Derek dropped his gaze to the floor, his shoulders folding in on themselves as he dragged his sock-clad foot across the carpet. “I don’t really know where my uncle is.”

Way to lay it on thick, dude.

Dad glanced at Stiles over Derek’s shoulder before he turned back to the man and shook his hand. “Of course you can stay with us. C’mon, let’s round up some grub. Stiles—how about we order in tonight?”

“Only if you promise to order a salad for your side and eat it all first before you touch anything else.”

“You take all the fun out of ordering in, kiddo,” he said, reaching over to ruffle Stiles’ hair. “What about you, Derek? How do you feel about pizza?”

“Veggie pizza!” Stiles said loudly, already in the process of pulling out his phone to search for the number to Antonio’s.

He watched as Derek glanced between the two of them, and he could tell the exact moment that Derek figured out whose side he needed to be on to make things smoothest for himself.

“I kind of prefer meat lovers myself, sir,” Derek said slowly.

His dad shrugged, a smile pulling at his lips, “Well, you are our guest, so, Stiles. How about we forgo the veggies tonight to accommodate for your furry friend here?”

There was nothing he could do except glare at Derek as the other man smirked at him.

“You’re still getting a salad,” he muttered, turning away to dial the number. He waited until he heard the two of them heading down the stairs.

***

Stiles spent the whole evening waiting for his dad to drop the charade and ask all the questions that must have been skating just beneath his skin. He had to be curious. Stiles sure as hell was, but Derek alluded to nothing, and his dad seemed content to talk about work and the upcoming March Madness. When Derek tried to clear the dishes, Dad gestured for him to sit back down and relax, while motioning for Stiles to help him instead.

He’d just put the dishes in the sink when his dad grabbed his shoulder. “Alright, tell me what’s going on.”

There was no point in lying. There was nothing to lie about.

“He won’t tell me and neither will Scott or anyone else. He needs a place to stay where they can come talk to him and plot things that I’m out of the loop on. Peter’s MIA and Cora’s back in New York. That’s it. That’s all I know.” He tried to keep his voice steady, the words rushing out of him anyway, as he tried not to think about the fact that Derek was probably listening to every word he said, every tick of his heart beat, waiting for the moment he had to come defend himself.

He turned back to the sink, turning the water on, when Dad asked, “Out of the loop?”

“Yeah, I dunno,” he said, shrugging his shoulder. He kept his eyes staring straight ahead as he poured copious amounts of dish soap onto the sponge. “Leave it alone, Dad. He’ll tell us or he won’t. It doesn’t matter.”

“It matters to me if you’re putting yourself in danger again,” Dad said, his hand still clasping Stiles’ shoulder.

“It doesn’t—” he promised. He could feel his heart, the feel of fire roasting the organ as he tried to forget the darkness that held it in its’ grasp. His breathing felt shallow, but sounded completely fine. “It doesn’t involve me at all.”

His dad hesitated, his hand slipping off Stiles’ shoulder gently.

“Alright…” he said. “But you’ll tell me if anything changes?”

He nodded without saying anything, scrubbing off the pizza grease from the plate. A few seconds passed before he felt his dad’s hand clasping his shoulder once more before he walked out of the kitchen.

He let out a sigh of relief, and ignored the tension in his shoulders.

***

That night he was plagued by nightmares of Derek’s bleeding hands as he wrapped the wolfsbane around his sister’s body as gently as he could, with tear tracks cleaning away the dirt on his face.

Stiles didn’t cry; hadn’t since the night he thought he’d lost his dad for good. But he didn’t sleep either.


	2. Chapter 2

“Well?”

Stiles closed his locker and turned around, finding himself surrounded by more people at once than he had in months. Scott, Allison, Isaac, Lydia, and the twins were all staring at him expectantly.

Hitching his bag higher up on his back, he asked, “Well, what?”

Aiden rolled his eyes. “Don’t be dense, Stilinski. What’s Hale doing back in Beacon Hills?”

Lydia jabbed him in the stomach with her elbow, her glare fierce before she whipped back around to catch Stiles’ gaze.

He shrugged, “How should I know?”

“Because you’ve spent the most amount of time with him in the past twenty-four hours, obviously?” Lydia had no time in her life to deal with other people’s issues, that was clearly still true.

But neither did he, and so he turned to Scott and asked point blank, “Was I supposed to be extracting information from Derek Hale? Is that why he’s staying at my place right now?”

He didn’t bother mentioning how Laura had been brought up. He didn’t tell them that Derek had spent most of the night talking to Dad, and that when Stiles had woken up in the morning to go to school they were both already gone, two plates and two coffee mugs sitting in the sink waiting to be washed.

He wasn’t even sure where Derek could have gone, since basically everyone he knew in town was a high school student.

“It’s not like that,” Allison said, her expression hopelessly sincere. “It’s just—well. C’mon, Stiles, you’re a naturally curious person. We just assumed you’d pester him with questions until he gave you an answer. Or at least gave away enough information for you to figure it out anyway.”

A part of him understood why they assumed that. It wasn’t like it wasn’t the truth. Yet there was still a part of him that wanted to push back against their words.

Still staring at Scott, he said, his voice hard, “It’s kind of hard to ask the right questions if I don’t know that there are even any questions I’m supposed to be asking. And it’s also impossible to get Derek Hale to feel obligated to answer any of them no matter how annoying you think I might be.”

He pushed his way through them, and jogged ahead to catch up with a familiar face, “Heeeey Danny. How goes life?”

“Stiles,” Danny said, something that sounded almost fond in his voice. “What were you and my boyfriend talking about?”

“Actually,” he said. “Your boyfriend said nothing so I had nothing to say to him. It was the annoying straight twin who decided to pull his best Jackson impression. Hey, is he your new best friend yet?”

The other boy snorted, the sound decidedly more pleasant coming from his nose than from anyone else’s—but that was the thing about Danny. He made everything more attractive.

“I tend to stick by best friends who die and come back to life,” he said. “Isn’t that enough angst for one high school career?

If only you knew, buddy.

“Yeah,” Stiles said, looking over at Danny. “You’re right. Stick by your man and all that shit, even if he is all the way in jolly ol’ London. What’s a little distance between bros, am I right?”

The look Danny gave him was one he’d grown accustomed to over the years. One part confusion, one part amusement, and one part annoyance: a perfect recipe for any reaction to a conversation with Stiles.

“They’re gone, you know,” he said.

Stiles glanced around the hallway, “What?”

“Scott and Ethan and everyone. They went to class. So, whatever conversation you were trying to avoid with them, consider your mission successful.”

He smiled ruefully and said, “Thanks.”

“No problem,” Danny said, already walking away from Stiles and towards his next class.

Stiles should do the same. Walk down the hall and turn into his English class, slide into his seat next to Greenberg where he could spend the next hour doodling in the margins of whatever book they were supposed to be reading. He could sit there and pretend like months earlier Ms. Blake hadn’t played an impressive game of cat and mouse with all of them, hadn’t murdered Heather in cold blood and attempted to do the same with Lydia. Only he could never quite be convincing enough: no matter how hard he tried, he could never forget the sight of his father keeled over with a knife sticking out of his chest before the darach whisked him away in that very classroom. It was impossible.

There had been panic attacks when they first went back to school. A lot of them. Scott had been there to steady his heartbeat, and then Lydia—though she had never tried to kiss him again—and even Isaac at times. Sometimes it felt like he could depend on them, but other times it felt like he was nothing more than a burden. A waste of space that took up precious, valuable time that could be spent doing better things than making sure he wasn’t going to suffocate to death due to his own weaknesses.

He couldn’t handle that. Not today.

So, he turned around. He walked out the school. He got into his Jeep, stuck the key in the ignition, and got the Hell out of Dodge.

He’d only been driving around for about twenty minutes when he spotted Derek walking along the side of the road. Maybe he could keep driving, pretend like he hadn’t seen the lone werewolf slinking along the dirt path by himself. That was a viable plan, right?

Or it was, until his unsteady heartbeat gave him away, causing Derek’s head to snap up and take in his surroundings. When his eyes fell on the distinctive blue Jeep across the street, there was a clear snarl on Derek’s face. Stiles gave the man a weak wave while silently cursing to himself and coming to a full stop.

Lowering his window as Derek walked towards him; he called out, “Heeeey Derek. What are you doing all by your lonesome? Come around here often?”

“Stiles,” he growled.

“You know, when you say my name all deadly and threatening like that, it sends my heart a-flutter.”

“Shut up.”

He gave an over-dramatic gasp, pressing his hand to his chest as he stared at Derek. “You wound me, Derek. Really.” When he didn’t get a laugh, he let his shoulders droop a little. “All right, all right, I’ll stop. But what are you doing walking down the road? You know, Scott tells me there’s this really useful thing about being a werewolf—what was it again? Oh right. Speed. Agility. The ability to run in the woods on all fours at an unbelievable pace. Admittedly while it’s not exactly the most attractive running form, it does get you where you need to go much quicker than what you’re doing right now. So. Wanna explain why you’re doing what you’re doing?”

There was a pause, a moment where they met each other’s gaze straight on, and seemed to be in the middle of a heated staring contest. If he weren’t genuinely curious about Derek’s answer, he might have pointed the hilarity of the situation out.

“Not really, no.”

With that, he started walking again.

“Wha—?” Fumbling with the keys, he turned on the ignition and started up the car, barely creeping down the road under five miles. “Derek! C’mon. Are you heading back to my house? I can drive you there.”

He kept his eyes on the road but found it hard not to keep glancing over at Derek. He could see the tension in his jaw, the way his hands flexed every now and again while he stared determinedly straight ahead as he walked.

“Let me give you a lift. I can update you on my life.”

He was met with silence, but he was nothing if not persistent.

“C’mon. You know you want to. It’s kind of chilly out there; I doubt your leather jacket does much other than look pretty. Except—do werewolves run higher temperatures? When Scott was first bitten, I remember finding some forums that said that, but I don’t know if that information was legit or if it came from somebody perusing Twilight. Tell me, did Stephenie Meyer actually get something right about the supernatural?” He glanced over at Derek, watching as he clenched and unclenched his jaw. “Are vampires real? And if they are, do they sparkle? How old are you, because in Twilight Jacob and the other werewolves’ kind of get stuck at twenty-five or something, so is that what it’s like for you? Are you going to look twenty-five when I’m like, forty, because dude, if we still know each other I’ll suffer from even more inferiority complexes then I do right now.”

He could almost see the exact moment Derek’s resolve broke.

“Aren’t you supposed to be in school?” Derek asked, his voice stern and demanding.

He smiled and said, “Nope. I have a free period.”

“You know, I can tell when you’re lying.”

Stiles arched an eyebrow. “Can you, though?”

He watched as Derek opened his mouth, a second away from tossing out whatever angry retort was on the tip of his tongue, when it slipped away into nothingness. His eyes met Derek’s as he once again rolled to a gentle stop.

“How about that ride?”

***

They were in his room, Derek sitting upright in the computer chair, while Stiles was spread out on his bed with his arms behind his head. He stared at the few glow-in-the-dark stars that still clung to his ceiling, remnants of his childhood when Mom tried to teach him about the constellations by recreating them in his bedroom. He’d torn a lot of them down right after she died, too consumed with grief to even handle going to sleep at night with the physical memory of her sticking them up suffocating him. Now though he was grateful that there had been a few he couldn’t reach back then. He liked looking at them.

He could put new ones up, but it wasn’t the same.

“I don’t understand,” Derek said, confusion etched into his every word.

Stiles sighed, boredom draping over him as the conversation circled back to the beginning for the third time. Using his elbows, he propped himself up before rolling his eyes.

“What don’t you get? I’ve explained this in every way I know how. I don’t think there’s any way I could have been clearer, actually,” he said.

It was almost endearing to watch the crinkle appear in Derek’s forehead. He stared, enjoying the way his thick eyebrows knitted together.

Licking his lips, feeling the sting of the dry, cracked flesh, he prompted, “C’mon. Tell me what you do know and maybe then we’ll figure out where you keep getting lost.”

Derek didn’t move a muscle, once again highlighting how different he and Stiles were. If Stiles were in Derek’s position right now, he knew he would be cracking his joints and running his fingers through his hair and tapping his foot. But Derek kept perfectly still, his shoulders a tense line and his hands gripped tightly with his elbows resting on his knees.

“You’ve been taking lessons with Deaton,” he started off slowly. The confusion was still evident, which Stiles tried not to be so insulted by, until his tone turned incredulous. “And you haven’t told anyone?”

He hadn’t, actually, other than Dad. Until Stiles had felt the inexplicable urge to tell Derek of all people. There was no reason for him to have confided in Derek, to have chosen him to be the one to open to about all of this. It was a betrayal of Scott and the pack and everyone who mattered, but the decision burrowed deep into his heart, a comforting weight in his chest, so he didn’t second-guess it.

He fidgeted on his bed, his teeth digging into his bottom lip as he gnawed on it in worry. Letting himself fall back onto his bed, he went back to staring at the ceiling.

“Stop making it sound so terrible,” he said. “Deaton said it was best that I keep this on the D.L. You know. Down low.” He licked his lips again. “Besides, it’s not like anybody would care.”

He expected Derek to say something to that, but instead he just carried on, “And Deaton is teaching you about…being a spark.”

It wasn’t quite a question, but the disbelief was there all the same.

“No, I already _am_ a spark apparently, so he can’t really teach me about being one. It’s more…” he paused, trying to search for the right words.

It shouldn’t have surprised him that Derek couldn’t wrap his brain around the idea of Stiles being useful. There was a reason he hadn’t bothered to tell anyone else about these sessions with Deaton—and it wasn’t just because he’d suggested they keep things quiet. That wasn’t even what Deaton had meant when he’d said that. He’d just been giving the same usual bullshit warning about not talking about supernatural stuff in public, but Stiles had taken it to be the rule he needed it to be. Because he wasn’t ready to have this conversation with Scott and Allison and Lydia and all the people who mattered. Derek was the trial run and it was going terribly.

If Derek, who Stiles had personally saved from near death on a number of occasions, couldn’t even begin to comprehend a valuable Stiles, how was anyone else supposed to?

“He says I have the potential to be an emissary,” he finished, so softly that he was sure if Derek weren’t a werewolf he wouldn’t have been able to hear the words in the first place.

“Scott’s?”

Even though Derek probably couldn’t see, he shrugged. “Who else’s? It’s not like you’re Alpha-ing it up anymore. Not to suggest that, were you still an Alpha, you would have even considered having me as your emissary. You and Scott would probably just share Deaton while I waxed on and waxed off.”

He paused for a moment before sitting up again. “That’s a reference to a great 80s movie called _The Karate Kid_. Just to clarify I’m not talking about jerking off.”

If looks could kill, Stiles would have been dead months ago.

“I’m not an idiot, Stiles. I’ve seen the movie.”

“Sure, you have, big guy.”

The growl that erupted from Derek’s throat quickly reminded Stiles that he was in an enclosed space with a werewolf.

Sometimes he forgot around Scott. Not often, because so much of his life these days was dependent wholly on the knowledge of the supernatural. But every now and then, when things were completely okay and nobody mentioned werewolves or hunters or kanimas, he could almost forget that Scott wasn’t just a normal human boy. That was the basis of Scott’s entire person: human. He had spent sixteen years of his life being a puny mortal after all.

Derek was different though. Spending time with Derek was different. He was born a werewolf—something other. He had never fallen off his bike as a kid and watched a scratch get infected and turn into his first scar. He had never been forced to only express his anger with slamming doors and raised voices; he and his family had had growls and claws and bright, shining eyes as a way to show their displeasure.

A shudder ran down his spine, hyper aware of the threat that sat in a computer chair at the foot of his bed.

“All right, all right. You’ve seen the movie, I believe you,” he said. “No reason to rip my throat out with your teeth.”

Without a moment’s hesitation, Derek bared his fangs, his eyes flashing blue.

Stiles’ mouth spread into a smile. “Was that…dude, were you being funny there? Oh, my God, you have comedic timing! This is just—this is amazing! Where’d you learn that, huh? Some basement comedy club when you were in New York with Cora?”

He didn’t really expect a response, and when he didn’t get one—other than a judgmental look—he moved on, “Anyway. Yeah. Deaton is teaching me about the ways of the emissaries. What a life, huh? You ditch Beacon Hills only to return and find me—me!—studying to be a mini-Deaton. Cool, huh?”

If he hadn’t have been sitting up, staring right at Derek, he might not have believed the next words would have ever left his mouth.

“You’ll be a better emissary than Deaton.”

His eyebrows raised in response, his mouth falling open in the process. He brought a hand up to scratch the back of his ear.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry but I think you just complimented me and clearly that must have been a mistake. You meant to insult me, right? Threaten me with your claws? It’s okay, no worries, I’ll give you a do-over. Finish the sentence: what you meant to say was…”

Derek didn’t speak.

“Dude,” Stiles said, groaning in frustration. “Can’t you ever do more than glare?”

He was waiting for an answer when he heard the front door open and slam shut. He glanced over at Derek only to see him staring towards the bedroom door.

“Your dad’s home.”

“What?” Stiles hissed. “He’s not supposed to be home for a few hours!”

Derek shrugged in response, his face still in profile. His shoulders were tense, his hands gripping the armrests of the chair.

Stiles asked, "Well? Is he coming upstairs?"

Before Derek got the chance to answer, Dad's voice broke through the silence.

"Stiles! You get your ass down here!"

Oh shit.

The tone was unmistakable as anything other than upset—Stiles glanced over at Derek only to see the older man already standing up and moving towards the door. He scrambled to follow behind him.

"Stiles!" Dad shouted, his voice rough like sandpaper, like his name was the perfect summation of disappointment and anger all wrapped into one word.

He let Derek go ahead of him as they walked down the stairs to find Dad standing there, still in his uniform. His sidearm was missing, probably already put away for safe keeping the second he walked through the front door just like he did every day.

Raising his hand, he wiggled his fingers in a weak wave. "Hey, Dad."

Derek gave a stiff nod, "Sheriff."

Frustration evident on his face, Dad ran his fingers through his hair, the ever-present wedding ring shining under the light. "Let me know if I'm mistaken, but isn't it only just past noon? So why, would you mind telling me, are you at home and not at school? Were classes cancelled? Was there a sudden flash flood that came through Beacon Hills and only destroyed the high school?"

“See, that’s funny, because if any of those things had happened, you as Sheriff and parent of a high school student, probably would have been made aware of the fact.”    

Somewhere to his left he could sense Derek rolling his eyes in exasperation.

“Stiles,” Dad said. “This isn’t funny. Get your ass in the cruiser, I’m driving you back to school. And you—” he turned, pointing to Derek who stood up straighter. “You are a guest in this house, and if you get in the way of my son’s education again I will show you the door.”

“Yes sir,” Derek said, not bothering to point out that Stiles had already left the school grounds by the time they’d run into each other.

It was so like him not to defend himself.

“Dad,” he started. “Derek didn’t do anything—”

“I don’t want to hear it, Stiles. Go out to the cruiser.”

Stiles jaw shut before he grabbed his bag from the floor. He glanced over his shoulder at Derek, who was standing at the bottom of the stairs, his expression stony and his hands held stiffly by his sides.

“See you,” he muttered as he walked out the door. He didn’t wait to hear if Derek would say anything back.

***

They were about halfway to campus when Dad suddenly pulled over to the side of the road and parked. For a moment he didn’t say anything, just stared at his fingers, clenched tightly around the wheel. After a few moments, he seemed to force himself to loosen his grip and he turned to look at Stiles.

“What’s going on with you, Stiles? Why the sudden urge to skip school?” His tone was gentle, like he was trying to coax a frightened woodland creature out of its hiding place.

Stiles shrugged. “Nothing’s going on with me. I just didn’t feel like going to class, that’s all. Is that a crime?”

“Kiddo,” Dad said. “If you don’t want Derek to stay with us, just tell me. I’ll turn this car around and tell him to find somewhere else to stay. I only agreed to it because I thought this is what you wanted. I want to support you in this pack business, but if it’s more than you can handle, that’s okay. Even if you just don’t _want_ to deal with this—I’m always on your side first.”

Stiles shifted in his seat, uncomfortable with where the conversation was headed. “That’s not fair to Derek. He has nowhere else to go!”

Dad placed his hand on his shoulder, “He’s a grown man, son. I’m more concerned about you. Tell me what you need.”

He shrugged his shoulder so Dad’s hand slid off and said, “I’m fine. I don’t need anything.”

It was clear that despite his efforts, Dad was annoyed. “Are you honestly telling me that Derek staying with us has nothing to do with you skipping? We haven’t had any problems with your attendance these past few months, but suddenly he’s here and you’re conveniently missing Chemistry.”

He scoffed, “It’s not like the new teacher’s any better than Harris, to be honest. Also, I was skipping English, not Chemistry.”

Dad said, “Be serious.”

“Aren’t you serious enough for the both of us?”

“Stiles,” Dad said. Just his name, but given just the right inflection that let him know if the next words out of his mouth weren’t the truth, he’d be grounded for a month.

He reached up to scratch high on his jawline as he turned his head to avoid eye contact. “I mean, no, okay, I can’t say he has _nothing_ to do with it, but I’d argue it’s more of a correlation than an actual causation.”

He didn’t want to think about Derek, left alone in their empty house, thinking of Dad’s threat to show him the door. Didn’t want to imagine the expression on the werewolf’s face as another person lay blame at his feet that he didn’t deserve.

“I’m just...I’m stressed, obviously,” he started. “It’s my senior year, I’m waiting to hear back from colleges, I’ve officially given up on the ten-year-woo-Lydia-Martin plan, and yeah, okay, Derek’s back and nobody knows why but apparently, everybody is expecting _me_ to figure it out for them because that’s my so-called role in the pack.”  

He let himself catch a breath before glancing up at Dad.

“Even if Derek wasn’t staying with us, I’d still be stressed. I still wouldn’t have had the answers the pack needed. So, it’s not fair to make him leave. It’s not like he _made_ me skip. I was already in the midst of the skipping when we ran into each other.” He looked up at Dad, “I mean, we have the space, right? So, let him stay.”

There was a moment, where they held each other’s eye contact. Dad seemed to be testing the veracity of his statements, weighing the truth versus the lie. He said, “If it gets to be too much though…”

“It won’t,” Stiles promised. “Let him stay. Who knows where he’ll end up without our guest bad? He might find some seedier apartment than his last, missing two walls instead of just one. Better to give him a place to sleep with at least a fundamental architectural structure.”

“You’re a good kid, Stiles,” Dad smiled, turning the key in the ignition and taking the cruiser out of park. He reached across to ruffle Stiles’ hair, before pulling the cruiser back onto the street. “Let’s get you back to school.”

***

It was late, and if there were any windows in the room Stiles was currently working in, he was sure there would be no sunlight filtering through the glass. Instead, he was crouched in the dark storage room at the veterinarian’s office, the soothing noises of snoring dogs and purring cats from the other room filling his senses as he concentrated on the diagrams in the ancient book before him.

A hand settled on his shoulder, almost appearing to have come from nowhere. He cursed silently under his breath for not having paid better attention.

“Okay, you win,” he said. “How long ago did you pass through my wards?”

“Three minutes and twenty-four seconds ago,” Deaton answered, stepping forward and settling himself in the empty chair beside Stiles.

It was an ongoing lesson for Stiles; one that he’d failed every single time. After Deaton had taught him how to create the wards in the first place, he’d gone a step further and taught him how to evade them. The wards were great at alerting him to someone who didn’t know the wards were up, but the trick was using them to catch other magic users who knew how to slip through them. Every training session, Stiles threw up the wards around his small study room, and tried to sense when Deaton came in. He didn’t pass through the wards every session, and sometimes he wouldn’t even reveal himself when he did, choosing instead to wait until Stiles was leaving the office confident that he had done well this time around.

And every now and then he did this, gently prodding Stiles out of his intense focus and trying to figure out where things went wrong. At least today he had the excuse of being distracted by the rest of his messy life.

He shook his head, “Fuck, sorry.”

Deaton folded his hands in his lap, carefully considering Stiles, before he said simply, “You’ll do better next time. I think today’s session is at its end. How far did you get in studying the magical properties of herbs outlined in the book I gave you?”

He shook his head, “Not very far—I kept getting distracted. I think I re-read the same passage at least twenty times. But hey! You want to ask me about mandrake, I’m your man. I recognize that plant from _Harry Potter_ like every good fan should.”

“And what,” Deaton asked. “Has you so distracted today?”

Stiles closed the book and stood up to put it away with the rest of Deaton’s collection. He slipped the _Veterinary Immunology_ dust jacket on the book before slipping it on the shelf. It wasn’t exactly the safest practice for protecting dangerous magical texts, but Deaton didn’t seem to mind so Stiles kept his mouth shut.

He leaned his back against the wall, matching Deaton’s gaze as he said, “C’mon. You know exactly why I’m distracted.”

“Suspecting something is not the same as knowing,” the vet replied, his tone all-knowing and sarcastic. “That’s something of import to keep in mind throughout your training, Stiles.”

God, he was the worst sometimes.

Stiles rolled his eyes, “Fine. Let me confirm what you already suspect then: Derek is back in Beacon Hills, nobody knows why, and now he’s staying with me and my dad.”

He tried to keep his voice light, kept his hands in his pockets to stop himself from fidgeting too much, and did his best not to make direct eye contact with the man. He already felt thrown off enough after the conversation with Dad in the cruiser that afternoon without Deaton trying to add to his unease.

“Why is he staying with you?”

“Uh, because Scott asked? And he’s my Alpha?” Stiles said, like the answer should be obvious. “As his future emissary, it seems like a smart idea to do what he needs of me.”

There was this moment of quiet—Deaton’s gaze was directed right at Stiles as he seemed to be contemplating what had just been said.

And then, because he was a cryptic asshole, he said, “Emissaries are like weapons; some are blunt, others are sharp, and there are those who are something else entirely. But not every weapon fits every hand and every situation. Sometimes the obvious choice is the wrong one.”

Stiles didn’t even know how to start unraveling that, so he didn’t bother.

Deaton smiled up at him and asked, “So, I’ll see you again in two days for our next session?”


	3. Chapter 3

“Are we all here, then?” Stiles asked, looking up from where he sat on the floor by the coffee table, his back flush with the couch.

“No,” Ethan said mutinously. “Danny’s not here.”

Allison rolled her eyes, “Don’t start with this again.”

He glared at her, “With what exactly again? He’s my boyfriend. His best friend was a kanima and is now a werewolf. He hangs out daily with a banshee and werewolves and plays lacrosse with a spark. He should be in the pack.”

“Barely a spark,” Stiles corrected, still not ready to tell the others about his training with Deaton. There was a pause before he said, “Dude! Are you implying Danny and I are only teammates? I’ll have you know we’re friend-adjacent these days.”

Isaac interrupted from where he was reclining next to Allison, his arm stretched out behind her, “You can’t really be part of a pack if you don’t know about the supernatural.”

He leaned forward and whispered something in Allison’s ear that she smiled at. Scott was sitting next to Isaac, and rather than interject to the conversation at hand, he was gazing at the two of them.

“And what  _ I’m _ saying is that he should know about what’s going on,” Ethan said. “As in, we should tell him. Aiden—back me up on this. You know I’m right.”

Aiden was sitting in the sheriff’s recliner, Lydia perched on the armrest. His hand was running up and down her back soothingly, but Lydia didn’t seem to take any notice. Before he could say anything, Lydia said, “Your twin brother isn’t exactly an impartial judge of the situation. For what it’s worth, I say we leave Danny out of it, and I’ve known him longer than anyone else in this room.”

Scott looked up, “Uh, I think Stiles and I have known Danny just as long as you have.”

Lydia scoffed, “Fine, let me correct myself: I’ve been friends with him longer than anyone else in this room. Eating paste with him in kindergarten or sitting next to each other in third grade, doesn’t really count as a friendship, Scott.”

“Why am I here again?” Derek asked from behind the couch.

“I think that’s the million-dollar question, right?” Stiles asked, tilting his head back against Scott’s thigh to catch Derek’s gaze. “Why have you graced Beacon Hills with your foreboding presence once again?”

The room seemed to come to a standstill. Ethan, who had looked like he wanted to say more about Danny, leaned back in his seat. Allison, who had just been whispering something to Scott, fell silent, while Aiden’s hand stilled where it rested on Lydia’s back. Stiles didn’t have to look, but he could feel Isaac’s penetrating gaze on the back of his head. He kept his own gaze locked on Derek.

Like a predator, never breaking eye contact, Derek inched his way from behind the couch until he was standing with his back to the television, facing the pack head on. Stiles arched an eyebrow.

“Well?” he asked.

Derek met his gaze head on, his face impassive as always, “I know this might be hard for you to accept, but not everything is your business.”

Before Stiles could shoot back a reply, Scott dropped his hand to Stiles’ shoulder.

“We’re not trying to pry, but it’s a worthwhile question. The last time we spoke after…” Scott fell silent for a moment, unsure whether or not to press on. “After Jennifer and the Alpha pack, you seemed done with Beacon Hills. I didn’t think we’d ever see you again.”

Stiles watched Derek. While everyone else was watching Derek’s face, Stiles was staring at his clenched fists tucked behind his back. There might have even been a claw or two. It was an impressive show of restraint for the man who apparently had no hesitation slamming Stiles’ head into a steering wheel.

Maybe Scott could scent something Stiles could only guess at, because he immediately said, “Not that we’re not glad to see you—we are! But…we’re just wondering why now? Did something happen with Cora?”

“Cora’s fine,” said Derek.

There was a beat as everyone waited for him to say more. When that didn’t come, Stiles threw his hands in the air, “Whoa now, Derek, don’t overwhelm us with such a flood of information, I don’t think we can keep up! Give everyone some space to take notes—does anyone have a pen and paper I could borrow? I think I need to write this down for posterity.”

He knew Allison was going to smack him on head before he even felt it.

Lydia, still perched on the armrest of the chair Aiden was sitting in, rested her hands primly on her knee as she said, “Nobody is trying to make you uncomfortable or force you to reveal any personal information. We respect your privacy. However, what I’m sure Scott and Stiles meant to express, is that we just want to make sure that our pack isn’t in danger.”

Her pointed gaze, which Stiles had been on the receiving end of on more than one occasion, met Derek’s. He raised his chin, almost in defiance, before he finally said, “Unless you’re not telling me things, as far as I know, your pack has nothing to worry about.”

Stiles wasn’t a werewolf, obviously, but he could practically hear the sigh of relief throughout the room. Obviously, Derek had told the truth and eased everyone’s nerves—everyone, that is, other than Stiles himself.

Maybe it was because, despite all their arguments, they were too alike; but Stiles could hear what Derek wasn’t saying while everyone only focused on the steady beat of his heart. Because he was the king of misdirection, always quick to tell half-truths to get out of telling an outright lie. He’d made misdirection his little bitch and everyone else was none-the-wiser. Adding qualifiers when none were asked for, framing his answer to questions that weren’t exactly asked, his whole life was skirting by without having to admit what he was really thinking. And that’s what Derek was doing here: avoiding the truth but not exactly telling a lie.

As though he knew what was running through Stiles’ mind, Derek turned his attention to Stiles. They stared at each other, Derek almost daring him to call him out. When Stiles said nothing, Derek gave a shark-like grin before turning his attention to Scott.

He asked, “Have you heard anything from Peter lately?”

Lydia stiffened where she was sitting, and Aiden made a plaintive whine as he reached up to run his fingers through her hair. Stiles watched as her expression turned dark for a split second and she inched forward on the armrest. Then, just like that, her expression cleared again and she looked almost bored.

Behind him, Scott seemed to shrug. “I haven’t seen Peter since the night everything went down with the Alpha Pack. When he told you and Cora to run.”

Isaac said, “We assume he left town the same as you two.”

“Why anyone would care where Peter could be is beyond me,” Lydia sniffed, flicking her hair over her shoulder.

Derek gave a curt nod. He glanced up at Lydia and said, “Despite everything he’s done, he is my uncle.”

Stiles let out a whistle, “Not to mention you have that whole tight bond what with you having slashed his throat and then Peter using your powers to raise himself from the dead. Thanksgiving’s must have been really fun at your abandoned train station.”

“Don’t talk about things you don’t understand,” Isaac said, leaning forward and pressing his claws to Stiles’ neck. Not enough to puncture the skin—just enough to threaten. “You didn’t spend any time there, but  _ we _ did.”

Another uncomfortable silence settled over the room. For the second time that week, Stiles felt his throat tighten at the word “we”. The image of bouncing blonde curls and the clatter of ice rink keys flashed through his mind unbidden. A second later, another image: two terrified sets of eyes staring down at him from where they were chained up, the blooming pain in his cheek from a flurry of fists, and the muffled shouts of pain while electricity coursed through their bodies. Guilt bubbled inside him, the words  _ if only, if only _ threatening to spill out of his lips.

Just as quickly, Isaac’s claws were no longer pressed against his flesh. Stiles turned around and saw Scott’s hand wrapped around Isaac’s wrist, the two teenage boys staring at each other. To the right of Isaac, Allison had her fingers carefully pressed against his shoulder, her entire attention focused on the two boys, her lips moving but the words so quiet that Stiles couldn’t pick them up. A quick glance around the room told him that only Lydia was left out of whatever Allison was saying and Stiles was sure Aiden would fill her in when they left.

Though he would deny it, Stiles felt a pit of loneliness in his gut. It was selfish and awful of him—Isaac was still struggling with the loss of his pack and Allison and Scott were only trying to be there for him. Derek had lost a pack, built a new one, and lost it again along with his Alpha powers. He didn’t consider himself part of the McCall pack and didn’t even want to be there; wouldn’t, either, if not for Scott’s machinations that kept him at the Stilinski’s house. If Scott weren’t an Alpha, and Derek weren’t an unaffiliated Beta—Omega?—on another pack’s territory, he probably would have gone anywhere other than Stiles’ guest bedroom.

He didn’t want to think about any of that.

Instead, Stiles slipped his phone out of his pocket and opened his contacts. “Does anyone want to order Chinese?”

“If by Chinese you mean Thai or sushi, then yes. Otherwise I’m going home,” Lydia said. “We have an essay due for AP English on Monday, and I’m going to be valedictorian no matter what.”

Ethan said, “I’m fine with whatever, but I’m leaving if Aiden does.”

Stiles bit the inside of his cheek, resolutely refusing to look up at the people around him. Why did he have to open his fucking mouth and make that crack at Derek? Why did everything have to be so difficult? He fiddled with his phone, flipping through the contacts to find the Thai place he and Dad rarely ordered from.

Before he could say anything else, Scott nudged him with his leg. “Actually, dude, I think Isaac and I are going to head home. Mom had the morning shift at the hospital, so she told us to be home for a family dinner.”

Allison spoke up, “Dad said he wanted to look over my financial scholarship applications, so I should head home too.”

But first she would probably stop off at the McCall’s and have dinner first, Stiles thought. He nodded, put his phone on the coffee table, and said, “Sounds like I get to save my allowance this week, so kudos to that.”

Everyone was standing up and moving towards the front door as Stiles scrambled off the floor. A question about everyone’s weekend plans was on the tip of his tongue, when Scott was the last one left (other than Derek who was still standing by the television).

“Sorry Stiles,” Scott said with an apologetic shrug. “See you on Monday?”

The question settled in the back of Stiles’ throat before he choked it down. So much for hanging out over the weekend.

Stiles forced a smile, “Yeah, of course. Let me know if you need any help with your homework.”

With a big grin, Scott nodded and closed the door behind him. Stiles stared at the door and felt his shoulders slump forward.

“So,” Derek said from behind him, his tone uncertain. “Do you still want Chinese?”

Stiles looked over his shoulder and saw Derek, his arm outstretched with Stiles’ phone in the palm of his hand.

***

“Stiles, if you try to take another one of my spring rolls, I will stab you with my chopsticks.”

“Are you fucking kidding me? We ordered four servings of spring rolls, they’re not all yours. Also, congratulations on leveling down your bodily threats from tearing my throat out to stabbing me. It’s a nice change of pace. Keeps me on my toes.”

They glared at each other from over the coffee table, Stiles’ wrist caught in Derek’s death grip as his chopsticks hovered over the hoard of spring rolls. Behind Derek’s head, the basketball game they’d finally agreed upon played on mute. Derek had refused to give _ Bob’s Burgers _ a chance, because as he so claimed, “It’s a cartoon show, Stiles, I’m not a child.” What an asshole.

Derek tightened his grip slightly, “Technically, I paid for the food so you could keep your allowance, so all of the spring rolls are mine. I already gave you two.”

“And kept six for yourself! What kind of monster are you?”

In the flash of a second, Derek shifted to his Beta form and snapped his fangs in Stiles’ direction. Stiles’ jaw dropped and could feel his cheeks flush.

He wrenched his wrist out of Derek’s grip and stared down at his Chicken Lo Mein shamefaced. “I can’t believe I set you up for that so perfectly, oh my God.”

Derek gave a huff that could almost be mistaken for a chuckle, if not for the fact that Stiles knew Derek probably hadn’t laughed in the past ten years.

His gaze flitted back up to Derek’s face, “Can I ask you something since we’re bonding over cheap take-out?”

“We’re not bonding,” he said, his chopsticks swooping down to grab the spring roll Stiles was reaching for. “We’re eating.”

Stiles arched an eyebrow, “Isn’t that bonding for werewolves?”

“No,” Derek said. He made direct eye contact with Stiles and bit the spring roll in half.

He rolled his eyes. “Okay, fine. We’re not bonding. Can I still ask you a question?”

This is what Scott wanted of him. This is what the pack and everyone expected: for Stiles to be the obnoxious, pestering kid who refused to leave people alone. Maybe Stiles was playing into the trope, but he saw his chance and he took it.

“Are you going to stop trying to steal my spring rolls?” Derek asked.

Stiles narrowed his eyes, his gaze flickering between Derek’s face and the last three spring rolls. “Are you going to stop being a fat ass and give me at least one more?”

“Are you wasting your one question on asking for an extra spring roll?”

“What? No!”

Derek flashed a sharp grin with a hint of his fangs, “Then no, you can’t have a spring roll but you can ask one question.”

Stiles let out a put-upon sigh, even though he'd suspected he'd never convince the werewolf to give up any of his food. He reached over and grabbed the broccoli and beef stir fry and started eating directly from the box.

“Why are you really in town?”

There was a beat, then Derek put down his chopsticks and picked up a napkin to wipe his mouth. “I already answered this.”

“Um, actually dude? You didn't. Like at all.” Stiles gestured at Derek with his chopsticks. “First you refused to explain, then you said it was none of my business, and then you promised that the pack wasn't in danger. And everyone was so distracted by that, they didn't notice you evaded the question. Or the fact that you said we’re safe ‘to the best of your knowledge’—AKA it's totally still possible that the pack isn't safe. Don't try to trip up a liar, dude. You'll get caught.”

Derek pinched the bridge of his nose. It was so similar to something Dad would do, that Stiles had to glance around the room to make sure he wasn't around.

“Stiles,” Derek said, a growl touching the edge of the name. “Can you just—please. Can you just let this be? For now.”

Stiles stared up at Derek’s face, at his intense eyes and his beard that was a bit longer than Derek used to wear it. He knew that if Derek were anyone else—if he weren’t a werewolf, that is—there would be dark circles under those eyes. He wondered when Derek last bothered to shave.

Look, Stiles  _ needed _ to know. Maybe Scott thought Stiles was just asking for the good of the pack, maybe Derek thought he was just nosy, it didn’t matter. What mattered was that Stiles sacrificed his life for this godforsaken town—he’d gone into that ice bath to save his dad, but also to center the Nemeton. To fix what was wrong with the world. And when Derek left, it had hurt, but it had also affirmed that they had done the right thing. If Derek felt healthy enough to leave Beacon Hills, then maybe everything was okay.

Which meant: if Derek felt the need to come back, things might be in danger. And Stiles couldn’t deny that sometimes he felt this tightness in his chest, one that had never been there before. He couldn’t deny that it scared him.

Before Stiles could give his answer, he heard a car pull up in the driveway. He shot a look at Derek, before he stated the obvious, “Dad’s home.”

Without saying anything, Derek stood up and walked into the kitchen. Stiles pushed his chopsticks through his food, casting a glance over to the empty kitchen doorway before focusing his attention on the front door.

Dad walked in and saw Stiles sitting on the floor, surrounded by enough Chinese food to feed an army. He was probably confused—it wasn’t often Stiles let him eat cheap take-out, and this would be the second time in one week. Stiles opened his mouth to explain, when another voice interrupted him from behind.

“I brought you a plate, sir. Also, a fork and knife, in case you want them,” Derek said. “Stiles ordered you grilled salmon in a ginger sauce, and I saved a couple spring rolls for you.”

Dad smiled, stepping forward to grab the plate and utensils from the werewolf. “Thank you, son.”

Stiles gave Derek a look of betrayal, “You’ll give my father the spring rolls but not me? I’m not the person at risk of a heart attack in this room!”

“I gave you two spring rolls,” Derek said, as though that were the most important accusation to respond to. “And your dad’s heart sounds perfectly healthy to me.”

Dad let out a shout, “Aha! Did you hear that? Maybe you can ease up on the heart healthy rabbit’s food and give me a bite of that Szechuan beef?”

He held out his fork as though he expected Stiles to hand over the box.

“Hold on a second. You—” he pointed at Derek with his chopsticks, “are not a doctor, no matter what your werewolf senses are telling you. And you,” he stared at Dad. “Are already getting disgustingly artery-clogging crispy spring rolls, so no you cannot have any of the Szechuan. Derek will stab you with his chopsticks if I ask him too.”

“No, I won’t,” Derek said, sitting back on the couch and handing the last three spring rolls to Dad.

Dad settled into his recliner and took the proffered food, a grin settling on his face. “You know, Derek, I wasn’t too sure about you being our guest, but I have to admit, I’m glad you’re here.”

Stiles made a showing of fake-outrage, “You two are not allowed to gang up on me, okay? That’s cruel. I can’t defend myself against a sheriff  _ and _ a werewolf.”

Dad laughed, “How about you put away the food so I’m not tempted to eat more of it?”

He gestured to the food spread across the coffee table—they had ordered more than enough to feed a grown man, a werewolf, and a teenage boy—and Stiles stuck his tongue out at him. “I’ll only do the clean-up for the good of your health, old man.”

“I’m not complaining,” Dad said. “Derek, how about we unmute the game?”  

Derek glanced over at Stiles, something unreadable in his expression, “Of course, sir.”

While Stiles gathered up the boxes of take-out, Dad and Derek watched the game together, not quite silently but not too excitedly either. Derek’s back was straight where he sat on the couch, his fingers curled into fists, nodding his head every now and then when Dad made a comment about the game. Stiles walked into the kitchen, and cast one final glance back at the two of them, started suddenly at the sight of these two men sitting only a foot apart from each other. Not for the first time, Stiles felt warmth in the pit of his gut that came from Dad knowing the truth.

***

Stiles was sitting at the kitchen table, his chemistry textbook open in front of him with one highlighter behind his ear and another held between his teeth. He’d put away all the food, carefully labeling what Dad could and couldn’t eat, and washed the dishes. Since he’d finished, he’d written the essay Lydia had mentioned, done his history reading, and solved his math homework. He was so concentrated on the Chemistry text in front of him, that when he leaned back to stretch his arms and saw Derek leaning against the kitchen doorway, he let out a yelp, dropping the highlighter on the table.

“Dude!” he said. “Make a noise next time, God.”

Derek tilted his head, as though acknowledging the remark but not actually agreeing to anything. Stiles sighed and focused his attention back on his homework.

“Can’t that wait?” Derek asked.

Stiles made a face. “Wait for what? It’s not like I have any other remarkable plans for my Friday evening. I might as well finish up my assignments now. Lydia might be valedictorian, but I’m gunning for salutatorian.”

“I think your dad thought you were going to come watch the game with him when you were done,” Derek said in lieu of an actual response.

He shrugged, highlighting an entire paragraph about Compton scattering. “Isn’t the game already over? I’ve been in here for a while.”

“Yes. But there are other things to watch.”

That caused Stiles to pause. He put down his highlighter and lifted his chin to meet Derek’s eye contact. The werewolf was still standing by the door, his arms folded across his chest, but his shoulders seemed hunched in on themselves. It almost looked like the tips of his ears were burning red.

Stiles asked, “Did my dad say he wanted me to come watch TV with him?”

“I’m a werewolf,” Derek said, almost exasperated. “I know when someone wants something.”

“Well, that wasn’t creepy and ominous at all,” Stiles said. “Wait—does that mean you can smell boners? Scott’s never answered that question. Because that’s an invasion of privacy and honestly you should keep in mind that that doesn’t mean anything—”

“Stiles.”

He closed his mouth, and met Derek’s eyes. They were both silent, Stiles waiting for Derek to say more, and Derek probably waiting for Stiles to interrupt him. But the interruption never came, and finally Derek said, “Will you just leave your homework and come watch TV with us?”

“Um,” Stiles began. He looked down at the textbook, the page half-filled with neon pink highlighter. He glanced at the doorway, where he could see some of the living room. He could hear the sound from the TV filtering into the kitchen, the words almost impossible to make out but the music still recognizable. He thought of Dad sitting in his recliner, apparently wanting Stiles to come hang out but not wanting to pressure him to spend time with Derek.

He closed his textbook.

“Sure, big guy, I can do that,” said Stiles.

Derek smiled at him—an honest to God smile—and said, “Good.”

They both walked into the living room, Derek quickly taking the spot on the far end of the couch, vacating the corner closest to Dad where he had been sitting earlier. Stiles slipped into the cushions, still warm from Derek’s body heat, and glanced over at Dad. He was smiling at Stiles, and he held out the remote for him to take.

Stiles’ gaze flitted over to Derek, before he grabbed the remote. “Well, if it’s up to me we’re definitely finding any  _ Bob’s Burgers _ reruns.”

The two men groaned loudly, but even so: neither got up to leave. They stayed, which is all Stiles had wanted.


	4. Chapter 4

“So, this might be a couple lesson plans ahead of what you’ve got set up for today but, if I wanted to hide my scent from a werewolf,” Stiles asked. “How would I go about doing that?”

He was standing in the doorway of Deaton’s examination room and hadn’t even put down his backpack. From where he stood beside the dog on the table, Deaton gave a weary sigh.

He said, “Good afternoon, Stiles. I see you’re early today.”

“Right, yes, niceties. Hi. Now onto my question: disguising my scent from a werewolf. How would I do that?”

He stepped into the room and walked right up to where the Husky lay calmly. With a grin, Stiles ran his fingers through the dog’s fur, cooing softly to him. He avoided Deaton’s gaze as the veterinarian looked down at him.

Deaton said, “It may not have been in my lesson plan for the day, but you should already know the answer to this question. Or have you not been paying attention to the text I’ve had you study?”

“The book on the magical properties of herbs? I’ve totally been paying attention,” Stiles said, his tone affronted. Deaton made no move to speak, his expression blank. There was a pause before he continued, sounding slightly less insulted. “I mean, I’ll admit it’s a little hard to follow along sometimes but that’s because I’ve been distracted. I definitely would remember if an herb could disguise my smell though.”

The vet shook his head, “Don’t be so obtuse. You can’t expect every situation you meet to match with a specific spell or herb. You’re a spark. It will be your duty as an emissary to find the right solution for the problems your pack faces.”

That made sense, logically, but was completely unhelpful in that specific moment.

Stiles groaned. “I’m not looking for emissary training right now. I’m looking for a very specific answer to a very specific question.”

He crouched down, not wanting to meet Deaton’s eyes. The older man would no doubt want Stiles to admit why he wanted to hide his scent from a werewolf, even though it was obvious that Deaton already knew the answer. He was just the type of man who would want to trap Stiles into admitting something shameful. Maybe if he didn’t make eye contact, and instead stared into the Husky’s gaze, he could get out of here without capitulating to Deaton’s demands.

“And which werewolf are you planning on hiding from?”

No such luck, apparently. “It’s not that I’m trying to hide from one specifically. More that I want to follow one without them knowing. I can stay far enough away to avert their werewolf-y sight and hearing. But smell—that I need to be careful of.”

He risked a glance up at Deaton, as he continued to pet the Husky. The vet nodded thoughtfully, his fingers deftly stitching a gash on the dog’s leg. He said, “And yet, that doesn’t answer the question as to which werewolf you wish to evade.”

“All right,” Stiles said. “You caught me. It’s Derek, okay? Are you happy?”

Deaton asked, his tone all-knowing, “Now what reason could you have to try and follow the werewolf that is currently living in your family’s guest bedroom?”

He let out a grumble as he kept his attention focused on the dog, otherwise he might honest-to-God snap at the other man. Stiles said, “I don’t know why you’re being difficult! I’m just trying to do exactly what you’re training me to do: help my pack, anticipate my Alpha’s needs, do what needs to get done even if no one else is willing to act. Scott needs to know why Derek is in town, I’m going to find out.”

“I spoke to Scott during his last shift,” Deaton said, picking up the surgical scissors and cutting the suture thread. “He told me that Derek had said his visit was private, and that he was satisfied it had nothing to do with the pack.”

Stiles let out an actual groan, and threw his hands into the air. The Husky on the table let out a pitiful whine that had Stiles quickly dropping his hands back into the dog’s fur, scratching behind his ears.

He rolled his eyes at Deaton, “Scott is too gullible for his own good. Derek told us next to nothing. And since—as you pointed out—he’s staying under my dad’s roof, I think I’m more than entitled to know why he’s back in town. The pack needs to stay on top of stuff like this. Which we can’t, if our Alpha accepts any declaration of privacy as an actual excuse for crossing into our territory.”

“Beacon Hills is Derek’s home,” Deaton said, in lieu of an actual response. He was carefully wrapping the Husky’s leg in a bandage. “And I thought you said Scott didn’t know where the territory ended or began?”

He looked at the man, exasperation gnawing at the back of his throat. He tried to keep his tone even as he spoke, “Because you refuse to teach Scott! I don’t even know why; you’re so hands on with my emissary training but with Scott you’re just completely hands off. As though just because he’s a True Alpha, he suddenly knows everything about being a werewolf.”

It had been bugging Stiles for a while, but he had kept the concerns to himself. At first, he thought that maybe Scott was being resistant to any attempts at training from Deaton. But then when he asked Scott if Deaton ever tried to give him advice about pack business, the other teen made clear that they very rarely talked about the supernatural at all. Oh sure, he assured Stiles, they checked in every now and then, but overall Deaton didn’t seem to care that much, and Scott said he was fine with that.

Well, Stiles wasn’t fine with that.

“So, no,” Stiles continued, “Scott doesn’t know where the territory boundaries are, but he should, and Derek crossed them. Whether Beacon Hills was his home or not, it’s not his territory anymore. He ceded control of it completely to Scott when he gave up his Alpha-hood to save Cora. And rather than stick around to work out whether he was in Scott’s pack or not, he left. So, he’s definitely not a pack member, and if Scott’s going to let him be here, then someone needs to know what he’s up to.”

The Husky had been staring at Stiles, unblinking, its bright blue eyes tracking his face. Stiles dragged his gaze away from the dog and finally met Deaton’s eyes.

“So, c’mon, doc. Help me out. Which herbs do I need to hide my scent from a werewolf?”

***

It had taken over half an hour, with a short break so Deaton could explain to the Husky’s owner how long Lady Godiva would have to wear her protective cone, before Stiles was able to leave with what he needed. A small glass jar of grey and yellow powder, a perfect mix of three herbs: Devil’s Dung, Mountain Ash, and Wolfsbane.

Devil’s Dung was a terrible name for the herb, but at least Stiles had an easier time trying to pronounce it than the actual name: Asafoetida. It came from a yellow plant native to the mountains of Afghanistan. Once Deaton had actually pulled the jar out from his hidden collection, Stiles recognized it from the book he’d been studying.

Devil’s Dung was known for its protective properties and its ability to banish negativity. The name apparently came from the truly atrocious odor it gave off when used, so Stiles was clearly looking forward to opening the jar. The Mountain Ash created a barrier between the wearer and the supernatural, and the Wolfsbane ensured that this would help specifically with werewolves. There wasn’t a lot of Wolfsbane in the mix: just a pinch to ensure this worked the way Stiles needed.

Sitting in his Jeep, parked in front of the clinic, he slipped the tiny vial of White Birch oil out of his backpack and into the cup holder, unscrewing the top and squeezing the pipette in preparation of his next steps. Then, ever so carefully, Stiles opened the jar of powder and tipped some into the palm of his left hand. He held the jar between his knees beneath the steering wheel. The stench of the Devil’s Dung was strong in Roscoe, and for a moment Stiles wondered if maybe he should’ve done this somewhere else. But he was already halfway there and he knew he had to concentrate while he did this. He had to imbue his will into his actions, no distractions. So, he focused his belief, grabbed the pipette, and released ten drops of the oil into the powder. With his middle finger, he carefully mixed the powder and oil, focusing all of his thoughts on his desire. He added another drop of the oil to make the mixture smoother.

When he was done, he had a sickly greenish-grey paste in the palm of his hand.

He dropped the pipette back into the vial, leaving it in the cup holder. Deliberately, Stiles ran his middle finger through the mixture and proceeded to drag the paste along his pulse points. At the base of his neck, underneath both of his ears, and on his wrists. He proceeded to go over the spots with more of the paste, until his palm was bare.

The strong stench of the Devil’s Dung had rapidly dissipated the more Stiles added the paste to his body, until finally he noticed that he couldn’t smell the mixture at all. He’d had lacrosse practice that chilly afternoon, and had skipped the shower in favor of going to Deaton’s, yet Stiles couldn’t detect any hint of his body odor.

It had worked.

A smile tugged at Stiles’ lips, as he quickly closed all the jars and shoved them back into his backpack. He pulled out his car and opened the app on his phone to pinpoint Derek’s location. Thank God Derek apparently didn’t pay attention to the apps uploaded to his phone. Once he saw where the werewolf was, he turned on the car and pulled out of the parking lot.

Now to figure out why Derek was back.

***

Stiles drove around the Preserve’s perimeters once to find a good secluded spot to park his Jeep. He didn’t need his phone out for this part: he had recognized the coordinates when he’d first seen them. Derek was at the Nemeton.

If Stiles had a notebook in his hands, he would have put a little tally under the “Totally Suspicious” column.

He moved cautiously through the forest just to be on the safe side, aware that without the scent of “human” wafting through the air, Derek would be more likely to attribute any noises he heard to the wildlife in the Preserve. He triple-checked to make sure his phone was completely on silent, with no threat of loud ringtones or vibrations to give away his existence.

Stiles could see the clearing for the Nemeton ahead of him, so he slowed down. He couldn’t walk into the clearing for fear of being seen, so he kept to the edges and tried to stay out of sight behind trees. He spotted Derek by the large tree stump, the werewolf kneeling beside the roots, his fingers touching something out of view. Frustrated, Stiles moved deliberately to the other side of the edge of the clearing, so that he could see what Derek was touching.

When he thought he was in the right spot, he turned his attention back to Derek only to freeze where he was standing.

Derek was touching a dead deer. What the fuck. There was a _dead deer_ at the base of the Nemeton. Specifically, a buck. It looked big and powerful, and it hadn’t yet shed its antlers in preparation of regrowing a new set for Spring. The buck’s throat appeared freshly slashed. The blood still looked wet from where he was standing, but when he focused his attention on Derek’s clothing, he didn’t see any blood splatter. It seemed unlikely that Derek would have been able to cut an animal’s throat without getting a drop of blood on himself.

Stiles watched as Derek ran his fingers through the buck’s short coat, so achingly similar to the way Stiles had pet the Husky earlier that afternoon, before slowly bringing his hand down to close the buck’s eyes. He watched as Derek bent his head, his lips moving as he whispered something over the dead buck.

The silence seemed to stretch on throughout the Preserve, as all the creatures seemed to come to a pause and Stiles held his breath.

When Derek raised his head again it was like the Preserve had come back to life.

It was already nearing dusk. If the need to know why Derek was in town weren’t so urgent, Stiles would have waited for the weekend. By the time it took for school and lacrosse to end, not to mention talking to Deaton and finding Derek, it was already almost 5PM. Stiles wasn’t sure if he could stay in the Preserve, watching Derek, once the sun set in approximately half an hour. Why couldn’t Derek have come back to Beacon Hills later in the year? There wasn’t enough daytime in the month of February to satisfy Stiles’ needs.

Derek seemed to have the same concern though. Or, at the very least, he’d come to an end with whatever had called him to the Nemeton in the first place. He stepped up and brushed the dirt off his knees. Stiles tried to step forward to get a better look at the buck, now that Derek wasn’t kneeling in front of it, but managed to snap a stick underneath his foot. Stiles moved back behind the tree but not before he saw as Derek turned his head in his direction clearly trying to scent the clearing. He was sure he was busted, yet nothing came. After a moment, Stiles peeked back around the tree trunk. All he could see was Derek’s back retreating in the distance.

Stiles waited in the Preserve for another ten minutes, giving Derek some time to get to wherever he was headed next. Stiles used that time to get a closer look at the dead buck, but couldn’t find anything useful to himself. Whatever information there was to be found here, he couldn’t sense it as a human.

As he made his way back to his Jeep, he slipped his phone out of his pocket and pulled up the app again. Once again, like Derek was personally taunting him, he recognized the destination immediately.

***

Stiles hadn’t been to the local cemetery since Mom’s birthday three months before. There was a time, right after she died, when he and Dad had found every excuse to visit her gravesite. The anniversary of the last time they went to Disneyland, the anniversary of the last time they ate dinner together as a family, the anniversary of the last time she remembered who they were...each one deserved some commemoration in their minds. That first Christmas without her, they’d set up a blanket next to her headstone and hadn’t left until the caretaker had told them it was time to close the cemetery. It was desperate and miserable, and it had done nothing to ease their grief.

They were in a healthier place now. They both still missed her, a constant ache in their hearts that only she could soothe, but they didn’t live their lives at the cemetery. The caretaker still recognized Stiles on sight though, and when he asked how long he had until the gates closed, the man told Stiles he could stay as long as he wanted. He’d make sure to stick around and open the gates to let Stiles out whenever he was ready.

Stiles thanked the man, and left to find Derek among the headstones.

It didn’t take long: not many people felt it was necessary to go to the graveyard after dark. The werewolf was standing, staring down at two headstones side-by-side. Stiles didn’t need to get too close. He recognized the plots, remembered how his heart had stuttered to a stop when he’d walked up to Boyd’s funeral and realized he was being buried next to Erica. Stiles still didn’t know how that happened; he had assumed that Boyd would be buried next to the sister he’d spoken of only once while under the influence of Wolfsbane. Instead he’d been buried next to his packmate, his only friend, the girl he’d loved and lost and found again in death.

Stiles had to think about it that way. It was the only way he could manage without buckling under the weight of just how wrong it was to live in a world where Erica and Boyd were dead and buried. That wasn’t supposed to be how everything unfolded. They were supposed to be pack. Erica was supposed to forever be his Catwoman, and he was supposed to be fighting to earn Boyd’s approval. Derek was supposed to have their support and he was supposed to guide them through life as werewolves, helping them grow and being a part of their family.

Instead he watched as their former Alpha stared at their graves.

He watched as Derek stepped forward, placing a hand on each headstone. Stiles wanted to step out from behind the angel sculpture and place his own hand on Derek’s shoulder, the same way he had done when Boyd had died. Derek didn’t deserve to be alone with this.

If the only reason Derek had returned to Beacon Hills was to pay his respects to his fallen betas, Stiles would understand.

When the werewolf stepped away from the gravestones, Stiles thought maybe he was going to leave. Stars were beginning to shine in the night sky, the only light pooling on the cemetery was coming from the first quarter moon. But Derek didn’t turn to leave, rather, he moved further into the cemetery, his steps determined as though he knew exactly where he was headed.

Stiles waited before following him, keeping his hood up and trying to stay out of Derek’s line of sight. He found another memorial to kneel behind and watched as Derek came to a stop. Stiles couldn’t make out the name on the headstone, until he looked up at the sculpture beside him and realized it looked familiar. A flash of a memory passed through his thoughts, an image of where Derek was standing surrounded by cameramen and journalists, a grieving Allison being led away by her parents. Stiles remembered kneeling in the same spot, whispering angrily at Scott trying to figure out why they were there. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out whose grave Derek was standing in front of.

Kate Argent’s.

Not for the first time in his life, Stiles wished he could read Derek’s mind. What was he thinking, staring down at the headstone of the woman who murdered his family and got away with it for ten years? Was he there to remind himself that she was dead? That she could no longer do any damage?

Or was it something else?

Stiles suspected that Derek and Kate had been together at some point before the fire. He still didn’t know how it happened, or how long it lasted. He didn’t know if Kate sincerely felt anything for Derek, or how much Derek even felt for her. He didn’t even know if there could be any real feelings there; Derek had been so young at the time, Stiles balked at the thought of their age difference. Stiles wasn’t even entirely sure how he’d made the connection; one minute Dad was telling him a young woman had organized the fire, the next, Peter was throwing blame on Derek. Stiles’ mind did what it does best and connected the dots.

He’d thrown it in Derek’s face at the hospital. Called Jennifer his “second psychotic, mass-murdering girlfriend,” and Derek hadn’t defended himself. He hadn’t called Stiles out for being wrong or misinformed. He’d taken it, shouldered the blame for the situation as readily as he shouldered the blame for everything else.

Standing in front of Kate’s grave, Stiles had to wonder if Derek didn’t carry the weight of the fire with him.

Derek didn’t stay in front of her grave for long. He didn’t touch her headstone the way he touched Erica and Boyd’s. Again, Stiles watched, expecting Derek to leave, only for Derek to walk further into the cemetery.

This time he didn’t follow. Whoever else Derek had to visit—his family, Paige, someone unknown to Stiles—it wasn’t any of his business. He’d done enough sleuthing for the night.

On his way out of the cemetery, Stiles stopped by Mom’s grave. He sat on the cold, hard ground, and whispered to her headstone, hoping that maybe if he believed hard enough, she might be able to hear him.

“I miss you, Mom.”

He had a hard time falling asleep that night.

***

It was lunchtime the next day, and Stiles was sitting in the library with Lydia and Danny. All three had their math textbooks open, studying for the test they had that afternoon. Stiles let out a large yawn as he rubbed at his eyes.

“Jesus, Stilinski,” Danny said. “You look like death warmed over.”

Stiles waved him off, and grabbed the soda he’d bought from the cafeteria. If only they sold coffee, he thought to himself.

Lydia tapped his notebook with her pencil, “Danny’s right. You look terrible. What were you doing last night? I thought you said you didn’t study.”

Stiles looked at Lydia, his gaze flitting over to Danny pointedly. He said, “Ix-nay on-yay e-thay erek-day alk-tay.”

Lydia rolled her eyes, and Danny barked out a laugh.

“Pig Latin, Stiles? I’m pretty sure I’m the one who taught you how to speak that in the second grade. She didn’t even mention anyone named Derek. Which, by the way—who’s Derek?”

Stiles glared at Lydia, “This is why I told you to learn Polish.”

“I don’t have time to study Polish if I want to be valedictorian, _Stiles_ ,” Lydia replied.

Danny slipped his hand into the space between their faces and waved. “Again,” he asked. “Who’s Derek?”

“You don’t know him,” Lydia answered at the same moment Stiles said, “Miguel.”

They glared at each other, Lydia’s earlier words about leaving Danny out of the supernatural world ringing in Stiles’ memory, before he said, “What? He asked!”

Danny cocked his head to the side, slipping his pencil behind his ear, “Your cousin Miguel? And you’re calling him Derek now, because…?”

There was just enough disbelief in his tone that Stiles knew the other teen wasn’t going to buy the lie twice. Better to go with a half-truth then. “Well, he’s not actually named Miguel. And he’s not exactly my cousin. See, when you met him he was actually on the run from the law thanks to an error in judgement Scott and I made our sophomore year—”

Lydia interrupted Stiles, as she was wont to do, and explained, “Scott and Stiles accused Derek of murdering his sister after they stumbled across her body. Stiles realized the mistake and helped Derek hide from the police while they solved her murder. That’s all been sorted, and now Derek is staying with Stiles and his dad in their guest bedroom. I think Stiles has a crush.”

“Wow.”

“I do not have a crush!”

Danny and Lydia exchanged knowing glances before turning their attention back to Stiles. He held up hand and began to count off his fingers, “Okay one, I genuinely thought Derek was capable of murder so he’s clearly not the safest person to be interested in. Two, he’s like, a thousand years old so even though I’m eighteen now that’s still gross. Three, I’m pretty sure he’s up to something kind of suspicious after what I saw yesterday. Four, it would be stupid to have a crush on someone like Derek when I am clearly made up entirely of pale skin and sarcasm.”

There was also the fact that Stiles had dug up Laura’s body and blamed him for things Kate and Jennifer had done. God, Stiles was such a fucking asshole.

Danny stared at Stiles. “Those all sound like made up problems. Except for maybe the first point. You probably should avoid people who you think are capable of murder.”

“Wait, five!” Stiles said, throwing his hand up into the air wiggled his five fingers. “I have a ten-year plan to woo Lydia.”

“Don’t even bother,” Lydia said. “You gave up on that plan as soon as you saw Jackson and I together after we found out he was still alive, and you know it. Even if you refused to admit it to anyone else, you knew the truth.”

That was pretty much true, but there was no point in admitting that to her.

Stiles pointed at her. “Shouldn’t you be using some example with your current boyfriend, and not your ex- who abandoned everyone to move to London?”

Danny pushed Stiles, “You can’t blame Jackson because his dad got a job at a law firm in London.”

“And I would use an example with Aiden,” Lydia sniffed. There was an edge to her voice as she said the other werewolf’s name. “If it had been relevant to the conversation. But it was Jackson that made you give up on me not Aiden, so your point is moot.”

Stiles said, “Fine, whatever. Can we please focus? I think he’s up to something suspicious. Also, Danny, I thought you said I wasn’t attractive to gay guys? Oh! Six—I’m like ninety-nine percent sure that Derek is straight.”

“You asked me that back in tenth grade,” Danny said. “And ninety-nine percent isn’t one hundred percent.”

Lydia waved her hand at Danny to be quiet. “Why do you think he’s up to something suspicious now?”

“I followed him yesterday,” Stiles admitted with a shrug. He rushed onward to defend himself before they could say anything, “He went to the Preserve to—”

He came to a grinding halt as he realized he couldn’t provide more detail with Danny standing there. Stricken, he tried to cover his mistake while still telling Lydia what she needed to hear, “To wander aimlessly. I saw him staring at a _dead deer by a tree stump_.”

Danny shrugged, “So he wandered through the woods and looked at a dead animal. I’ve done that. Stiles, you’ve _definitely_ done that before. You stared at a dead body before—his sister’s body, even—you don’t get to judge.”

Stiles made eye contact with Lydia, his gaze intense, as her own widened. Her voice turned serious, “Well, you need to follow up on this. Immediately. Also, you should let Scott know that there are dead deer in the Preserve. I’m sure he’d want to know. Because he works at the veterinarian’s. It’s relevant.”

He nodded seriously while Danny looked between the two of them, “Man, you two are weird.”

Lydia glanced at Danny, and then reiterated, “It might not mean anything about Derek, but you should definitely tell Scott. Okay? Sooner rather than later.”

“Wait, Danny, hold up—am I attractive to gay guys now?”


	5. Chapter 5

It took a few days to get Scott by himself. Every time Stiles went to talk to him, Allison or Isaac (or, most often, both) appeared around the corner. It wasn’t as though they couldn’t be trusted to hear what Stiles had found out; rather, after a couple days to stew it over, he’d come to realize how embarrassing it was that he’d gone out of his way to stalk Derek. It was one thing to pester the werewolf with questions, it was another to surreptitiously follow him around town. Yet Stiles had done it, quite successfully. He’d thanked Deacon for the Devil’s Dung mixture and White Birch oil, then hid the jars in his room where he hoped no one would find them.

Finally, after three days, Stiles managed to pull Scott back before lacrosse practice. Isaac had changed quicker than the others and gone out to the field—Coach had given him laps during class when he realized Isaac was paying more attention to the notes he was passing back and forth with Scott than to the lecture. If Isaac wanted to have time to actually practice and, more likely, flirt with Scott, he wanted to get those laps done quickly.

Which meant Scott was finally alone, and Stiles was definitely the kind of person to take advantage of that.

“Hold up a sec,” Stiles said, his hand wrapped loosely around Scott’s bicep. “I need to talk to you about something.”

Scott glanced over his shoulder at the locker room door, which moments ago had been filled with the backs of their teammates. He glanced back at Stiles and gave a genuine, bright smile, “Sure, man. But make it quick? Coach seems to be in a mood today.”

Stiles gave a shaky laugh, “Yeah, anytime he decides to punish someone other than Greenberg, you have to ask what’s upsetting the balance in his universe.”

Scott laughed with him, hitching his lacrosse stick higher up his shoulder. “What’s up?” he asked.

Stiles took a deep breath, and took a moment to pull on his gloves rather than meet Scott’s eyes. When he heard the other werewolf let out a small sigh, he knew he had to suck it up. “Okay,” he said. “Look I did something stupid, but it wasn’t completely useless. I mean, I think it might be helpful. To know, that is.”

“Oh my God, dude,” Scott said, bouncing up and down on his heels. “Did you ask Lydia out again? Did you ask _Derek_ out? Do I need to protect you from anyone?”

“Wait, what? No!” Stiles said, holding his gloved hands up in front of him. “I didn’t ask anyone out! Why does everyone keep accusing me of liking Derek? And how would me asking either of them out be helpful for you to know?”

Scott shrugged, “I mean, if anyone was going to hurt you in retaliation for an inappropriate crush, I think that’d be useful to know as your best friend.”

He made a face at the werewolf, scrunching up his nose and shaking his head.

“That still doesn’t answer the question about why you think I’d ask out Derek. Lydia, maybe. Derek? Never.”

“Disgustingly attractive and unattainable is kind of your type, dude,” Scott said.

Stiles let his jaw drop, and placed a hand over his heart in mock outrage. “Totally not fair, dude! And, excuse me, but your type must be ridiculously gorgeous teenagers with dimples.”

With the ability to kill anyone in their path, but Stiles didn’t mention that.

Scott had the decency to blush at the accusation, dropping his chin to his chest and running his fingers through his hair. The tips of his ears were bright red, and Stiles could see the way he’d caught his bottom lip between his teeth, gnawing at the flesh in an almost nervous habit. It was endearing to see that hadn’t changed.

He shook his head in frustration, “Whatever, that’s not what I wanted to talk to you about. I have something actually serious to discuss that I think you should know.”

“Am I too obvious with Allison?” Scott asked, instead of listening to what Stiles was saying.

He rolled his eyes, “With just Allison or Isaac too? You’re pretty bad with both. Anyway! Stop distracting me!”

“Okay, but if I had to ask one of them out, you would recommend who?” Scott asked, grinning.

“What? Scott!” Stiles threw his hands into the air, exasperated. “Stop getting distracted; ask them both out for all I care. Just pay attention, asshole.”

“Alright, alright,” said Scott. “Tell me what you need to tell me...and then we’ll talk more about my situation.”

“I followed Derek the other day.”

A silence hung in the air, the locker room dead quiet other than the rattle of the janky, old air conditioning unit squeezed into the small window above the lockers. Stiles was suddenly aware of how gross the locker room smelled, curious for the first time how Scott and Isaac put up with it. The stench of sweaty, hormonal teenage boys and their overcompensation of cologne and spray deodorant was barely tolerable to Stiles’ human nose.

Scott gaped, “You did what?”

Stiles gritted his teeth, aware that there was no way for him to really defend his actions. “Look, I just wanted to know what he was up to. Okay? Despite how you felt, he didn’t give us any real answers at the last pack meeting, and I thought it would be useful to find out what he got up to while he thought he was alone.”

“Stiles!” Scott said “Why would you do that? I told him we respected his privacy!”

“I mean, technically,” Stiles said. “Lydia told him we respected his privacy? And she’s not the pack Alpha, so…”

“So you thought it was okay to follow Derek?”

“Look, I realize it was ill-advised now, okay? But can we please appreciate the information I found out?” Stiles said. “Derek went out to the Nemeton. By himself. We don’t even go out there and we’re literally spiritually life-and-death connected to the fucking thing!”

Stiles wondered sometimes if Scott and Allison remembered that fact or not. They didn’t act like it. They never spoke about it. Some days, Stiles felt like he was alone in a fog, his heart racing as though he’d been running for miles, trying to find his way home but so confused about where he was. There were nights when he woke up in the darkness of his bedroom, and for a split second he could swear he was laying on a bed of dead leaves, with the night air filling his lungs. There were times when if he blinked too rapidly, he’d suddenly feel like he was trapped beneath the ground, looking up at the sky through dead, rotting roots, unable to unleash his power on the world. It felt like he was clawing his way through the never-ending wet dirt, his fingernails ripping off in the struggle, and all he could do was gasp for air that never came.

Sometimes it sounded like someone was whispering help from the corner of a mind that wasn’t his, and he couldn’t do anything, couldn’t stop it, could only try to pretend like it wasn’t there.

Allison and Scott never seemed to have that problem. Or if they did, they never came to Stiles with it.

Scott shook his head. “Derek’s family used to live in the Preserve. He can go wherever he wants, it’s none of our business.”

Scott tried to turn to leave, but Stiles’ gloved hand shot out and grabbed his arm. “There was a dead deer. At the Nemeton.”

“I’m sure there are plenty of dead deer in the Preserve, Stiles. That’s not exactly weird.”

Scott tried to leave again, and again, Stiles stopped him.

“Most of them probably don’t have their throats slit and their bodies left beside an impossibly powerful magical tree, dude. Imagine the words ‘Ritual Sacrifice’ in skywriting above it. This was not normal,” said Stiles.

Scott turned to consider him. He was a good Alpha and it was clear that this piqued his curiosity. He asked, “So, you think Derek killed the deer? To what end?”

“Well, okay, I don’t actually think Derek killed the deer?” he said. “There was no blood on his hands or clothes, and it would probably have been hard to come away completely spotless after slicing a deer’s throat open, even if he was in his beta form at the time. And it was definitely a fresh kill. But still, I don’t know to what end anyone would kill the deer! Or why Derek would be studying the body like a high school biology student. But probably not a good one!”

The werewolf dragged his hand across his face, disinterest quickly clouding his features, and said, “Let me get this straight. You saw Derek looking at a dead deer, that you don’t think he killed, next to a tree that three of us are connected to and would probably sense if something was up with it?”

“I mean, when you put it that way it sounds less concerning, but yes,” Stiles said.

Scott asked, “Have you felt anything wrong with the tree? Have you sensed anything? When you followed him there, was everything okay?”

Nothing had felt right to Stiles in over a year. That was the problem. He couldn’t differentiate between the terrifyingly dark status quo and a sinister new threat.

Stiles sighed, the sound of defeat so familiar to his ears. “Okay, no, I haven’t felt anything. But it definitely felt weird in the Preserve because, again, dead deer! At the bottom of the Nemeton! In a ritualistic type manner!”

“It’s not enough, dude,” Scott said. He gave a shrug and sounded genuinely apologetic. “You know I’d be the first person to admit if there was something to be concerned about, but I haven’t noticed anything and neither has Allison, and despite what you saw, neither have you. You’re just letting your ideas get ahead of you. Derek said he was here for private reasons and that the pack was okay. Where else did you follow him? Anything to back that up other than your theories?”

Stiles pressed his lips into a thin line. Scott would be the last person to admit there was something to be concerned about, actually. He liked to go through life pretending everything was okay, like dating the daughter of a hunter wasn’t dangerous or that Matt Daehler put off completely normal vibes.

Fuck. That was a shitty thing to think about his best friend.

He said, “I mean, he went to the cemetery to visit Erica and Boyd’s graves. His family’s too, I think.”

He didn’t say anything about the visit to Kate’s grave. For some reason, Stiles knew that was private. He knew it wasn’t something he would ever tell anyone.

Scott gave Stiles a hard look. “Visiting the graves of his former pack sounds like a pretty private and decent reason to be back in Beacon Hills. And it definitely sounds like something that has nothing to do with us.”

“But Scott—”

“Don’t follow Derek again,” Scott said. “I trust him and so should you. C’mon. Let’s get to practice.”

He reached out to pat Stiles’ shoulder before walking out of the locker room, leaving Stiles to stand alone. Despite Scott’s assurances, he didn’t feel better.

It wasn’t Scott’s fault, but it felt like they were separated by six-feet of dank, rotten earth, dragging Stiles further down than he could survive. Almost as though he’d never break free and taste the fresh air again.

He shook his head and followed Scott out to the field.

***

Dad had told Stiles that morning that he was going to have to work a double shift that night. Stiles knew from prior experience that meant Dad would think he could chip in on whatever disgustingly greasy take-out the other deputies ordered. Which meant Stiles had to take it upon himself to feed his father properly.

Hence why he was walking into the Sheriff’s station an hour after lacrosse practice, carrying a bag of food and large bottles of water. He gave a smile to the somewhat-new deputy sitting at the front desk, a guy named Parrish who was always willing to confide in Stiles when Dad broke his diet.

All the deputies felt somewhat-new to Stiles, as most of them had been hired after the deadly night with Matt and Gerard back in his sophomore year. Before that, most of the deputies had known Stiles since he was a kid. Tara had been a deputy at the station since Stiles was in third grade, offering up her tutoring services whenever Dad mentioned how Stiles’ grades had taken a bit of a dip. She used to bribe him with Hershey’s Kisses to get him to concentrate on his homework. It was hard to reconcile those memories with the image of her dead body, bloody and torn open by the Kanima’s claws, in the same spot that Parrish was searching for his dropped pen.

He tried not to think about it.

Stiles walked into Dad’s office and held up his offerings. “I bring you non-artery clogging food.”

Dad rolled his eyes, but couldn’t fight the smile off his face. “Thanks, son. What’d you bring me tonight?”

He stood in front of Dad’s desk and put the bag down. He pulled out each item, one by one, and answered, “I brought you some water, a salad from that Mexican place you like but I got you chicken instead of steak, and some baby carrots. If you play your cards right, I’ll give you an orange for your dessert.”

“This is a form of punishment for something,” Dad said, reaching out to pull the salad towards him.

“If by punishment you mean ‘desire to see you live a long healthy life’ then yes, that’s what this is,” Stiles said. He dropped down into the chair opposite Dad and brought his feet up to the desk. They only rested there for a second before Dad was already pushing them down.

Stiles said, “Besides, I could have brought you a salad from the grocery store, but I specifically went to the Mexican restaurant you like. That has to count for something.”

“It counts for some quality father-son time while I take my dinner break,” Dad said. “Want to hang out for a bit, or do you need to head home?”

Stiles tilted his head back in the chair to stare up at the familiar dropped ceiling. He could hear typing coming from the bullpen, could hear the ringing of someone’s desk phone ringing. It was the familiar sounds of his childhood, as comforting to him as the smell of Dad’s aftershave.

He shrugged. “I’ve got nothing to do tonight. I got my homework done during free period, so I can hang out with you for a bit.”

“What’s Derek up to tonight?” asked Dad.

Stiles grimaced. “Nothing, as far as I know. Why?”

“Because I’m not blind.” Dad’s tone was sharp enough to drag Stiles’ attention back down to the room. The man met Stiles’ gaze with a stern look, and he said, “I know you’ve been asking him why he’s in town, and I know the other night you came home much later than normal. Are you helping him with something werewolf-related? Is he getting you and Scott into any supernatural trouble?”

“What?” Stiles asked, confounded as to where this was coming from. “No! I don’t even know why Derek’s in town, I told you this already. He won’t tell anyone anything.”

Dad made a disbelieving face. “Where were you the other night?”

“C’mon Dad, don’t you trust me?” asked Stiles.

“Where?”

Stiles let out a huge sigh, leaning forward to hide his face in his hands. He had already gone through the awkwardness of having to tell Scott. He didn’t really want to tell Dad. And yet, he answered, “I was kind of, sort of, maybe following Derek around town.”

“Jesus Christ, Stiles,” Dad said, putting down his fork onto his desk. “Am I going to have to arrest my own son for stalking?”

Stiles forced a grin on his face. “I’m pretty sure it has to be repeated instances of stalking to qualify under the California Civil Stalking Law. I only followed him the one night. Just saying.”

If looks could kill, Stiles would already be dead.

“Stiles.”

He started talking fast, knowing there was no other way he’d be able to get his defense in. “I’m just trying to be a good packmate, y’know? And I did see some shady stuff, which Lydia thought was concerning but Scott brushed off as no big deal. Admittedly, I don’t think Derek _did_ any of the shady stuff himself, he just seemed more familiar with it than I would be comfortable with. Anyway, I wanted to run it by you and see if that big Sheriff brain could tell me what to do?”

Stiles was ready to keep going, when Dad reached out and touched Stiles hand where he was drumming his fingers against the desk.

“Son,” he said. “How about we start over and you tell me—slowly—what happened.”

Twenty minutes later, Dad leaned back in his chair, and let out a heavy sigh. He pinched the bridge of his nose and squeezed his eyes shut.

Stiles wrung his hands together and said, “So? Any thoughts?”

“I have a _lot_ of thoughts, Stiles,” Dad said.

Everything about his tone told Stiles to be wary of what Dad was about to say. He stepped himself, and asked, “Okay? Can you share them with me, please?”

“No,” Dad said firmly. “I’m not the person you should be speaking to about this.”

He rolled his eyes and said, “Scott already blew me off once, Dad, I don't think I can get him to listen to me even if I promise to let him win _Call of Duty_.”

Dad sat up straighter and placed his hands flat on his desk. He matched Stiles’ eyes and said, “Not Scott. Derek. You need to talk to him.”

“What! You want me to admit to a _werewolf_ that I've been stalking him?”

Dad gave a crooked grin. “I thought you said it didn't count as stalking?”

“Uh, I don't know if you've ever met Derek Hale before, but he's not exactly open to my usual brand of sarcasm and half-truths,” he said.

Dad shook his head. “Then I suppose you'll have to tell him the whole truth.”

“Dad! I am your only child! Where is your protective streak? Why are you trying to hand me over like a lamb to the slaughter—don't you love me?”

There was a moment where Stiles thought Dad was going to keep going with this line of humor. But instead, he watched as Dad pressed his lips into a thin line, his gaze serious. There was no hint of amusement on his face.

He said, “I know I haven't known about werewolves as long as you have. I know you had to go through a lot of terrifying things with Derek when he first came to town, and I'm sorry I wasn't there for you when that was going on.”

“What?” Stiles asked. “Wait, Dad, no—”

He held up a hand to stop Stiles from talking. When he was sure Stiles was quiet, Dad pressed on, “I understand that you have reasons to distrust Derek, and that I may never know what all of those reasons are, but I think you're not giving him enough credit. I know he's intimidating, but I also know that he believed you when you told him that Jennifer had abducted me. Even though he had no reason to. Even though it would have been easier for him to think you were lying.”

“But—”

Dad continued, “I may not have been Derek’s biggest fan. I know I arrested him for Laura’s murder. But you have to remember: I was there the day of the fire. I know firsthand what Derek went through. I thought that made him capable of murder, but I was wrong. You didn't see him in the interrogation room but Derek was...broken. Guilt-ridden by his own inaction. He blamed himself for not coming to Beacon Hills with Laura when she left New York. That was years ago now, but I see the same man in our guest bedroom, son. He’s a good man who has done everything in his power to help you and your friends. The fact that you don't see that concerns me.”

Stiles jaw dropped. “Um, he also _definitely_ said we should kill Lydia when he thought she was the kanima.”

“I'm not saying he's perfect. But you told me he's saved your life more times than you can count. So, he's earned my trust until he does something truly unforgivable,” Dad said. “And until that happens, I think you need to have a conversation with him. A real one. Don't interrogate him, talk to him. I think you both need that right now.”

The problem was, he knew Dad was giving him honestly helpful advice. It just wasn’t what Stiles wanted to hear.

***

 _This is stupid._ It was the only thought running through Stiles’ mind as he paced his bedroom. This was such a stupid idea, and he was going to end up with a gut full of werewolf claws. What else could he possibly expect?

He heard the front door open from his bedroom.

For a moment, Stiles thought that maybe Derek would come barging through his bedroom door. He had the flash of an image in his mind, of a concerned and nerve-wracked Derek, demanding to know why Stiles’ heartbeat was racing. He imagined the werewolf crossing the threshold of his bedroom, stepping close into Stiles’ personal space and wrapping a strong hand around his bicep, worry etched into Derek’s face. He thought of stepping closer, pressing his forehead into the crook of Derek’s neck, and confessing everything; letting the words pour out from his lips with no hesitation. Maybe Derek would understand. Maybe he’d be so grateful to know that Stiles was okay, that he would overlook the wrongness of Stiles’ actions.

That didn’t happen, obviously. He was still pacing in his bedroom as he listened to Derek’s steps climbing the stairs followed by the guest bedroom door closing.

So, there was only one way forward: courage.

Stiles inhaled sharply and steeled himself for what was to come. Before he could second guess himself, Stiles was out of his room and across the hall at Derek’s door.

“Derek!” he said. “Open up!”

As though he’d been standing right beside the door, it opened a moment later. The scowl on Derek’s face was so familiar. He snapped, “What do you want, Stiles?”

“I have some questions for you,” he said. He didn’t even stop himself as he reached up and planted his hand on Derek’s chest, pushing the werewolf into the room so Stiles could get passed him.

Derek barely tried to resist.

He asked, incredulous, “Like what?”

“Why were you at the Nemeton the other day?”

He doesn’t remember it, but when Stiles was four years old, and first attending his summer swim classes, the instructor always wanted the kids to start off on the steps leading into the shallow end. But Stiles never wanted that. Without fail, he always managed to duck out of sight of the instructor, just long enough to jump feet first into the water. Mom used to tell him, her lips wide with a big laugh, that he had no patience for easing into things. Stiles wanted it all at once, and nobody—not a swimming instructor, or a parent, or a werewolf—could get in his way.

“Well?” he said. “Don’t try to lie to me, I know you were there. The Nemeton has nothing to do with you.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Derek said.

If Stiles hadn’t seen Derek with his own two eyes kneeling beside that dead deer at the Nemeton, he might have believed Derek. His expression was the perfect mixture of bewilderment and insulted.

He pointed at Derek. “Wow, don’t even, dude. I know you were there Monday evening. _I know,_ okay?”

Derek frowned and took a step forward. They were basically the same height, and yet when Derek stood this close to Stiles, he seemed to tower over him. Derek asked, “How do you know, Stiles?”

He’d prepared his answer once he realized he’d have to confront Derek, but standing there in the bedroom Dad had willingly given Derek, the words didn’t seem to come.

The bed was made, but rumpled, as though Derek had pulled up the comforter haphazardly after waking up that morning. On the floor by the dresser, he could see a duffel bag, half opened and a number of dark colored t-shirts peeking out. His leather jacket was on the back of the armchair in the corner, and Derek was standing in just his socks, his heavy boots kicked off next to the bed.

He was...comfortable here. In Stiles’ home, where he said Derek could stay for as long as he needed.

Derek was looking at him expectantly, so he said, wavering ever so slightly, “I have a connection to the Nemeton, remember?”

Derek smirked, “Have you forgotten that I’m a werewolf? I can hear when you’re lying.”

“I mean, obviously, I didn’t forget,” Stiles said. “And besides, I’m not lying. You know about my connection to the Nemeton—I could sense that you were out there. The tree didn’t like it.”

Derek stepped forward again, lifting a finger to tap Stiles’ sternum. He bared his teeth—in a threat or a grin, Stiles wasn’t sure—and said, “I remember that Scott and Allison have a connection too. So why are you confronting me by yourself? Where’s your Alpha, Stiles.”

The last bit wasn’t a question: it was a statement. A challenge, and Stiles couldn’t meet it.

He tilted his chin up to meet Derek’s gaze defiantly, and admitted, “Fine. I didn’t sense it through the connection. I followed you there. I saw the deer.”

Their faces were so close together, their harsh breath intermingled in the space between their lips. If it were anyone else, Stiles might have ducked forward to meet their lips.

Instead, Derek’s eyebrows nudged upwards just so and he took a step back.

“How? I didn’t sense you,” he asked, a lilt of awe in his voice.

Stiles flashed a grin at the older man and waggled his fingers, “Magic, Hale.”

When that didn’t seem to be enough of an answer, Stiles sighed, “It’s not that impressive, dude, I got Deaton to help me mask my scent, okay? You mistook my heartbeat for that of a tiny woodland creature or a nearby hiker and I tried to stay out of your line of sight. Can we get back to my question? Why were you there?”

“That’s not an entirely useless skill to have,” Derek said in lieu of actually stating outright that he was impressed. Typical. “As for why I was there, it’s none of your—”

“Business, I know,” Stiles said, rolling his eyes. “Let’s move past that and get to the part where I say that I know you didn’t kill that deer, but it’s still sketchy that you were there in the first place. Scott thinks you’re clean, and my dad thinks that we need to have an honest conversation. So why don’t you just tell me why you were there, and then I can get out of your infuriatingly gorgeous hair?”

Derek reached his hand up in apparent confusion, but stopped himself before he touched his hair. He dropped his arm to his side and clenched his fist. His lips moved but no words came, and then he sat on the edge of the bed and put his face in his hands.

That was not what Stiles expected him to do.

“Um,” he said, before stepping closer to Derek. He almost patted his shoulder, before deciding that would probably be a bad idea. “You okay there, big guy?”

Derek rested his chin in the palm of his hand and glanced up at Stiles. There were still shadows under his eyes, which told Stiles that no matter how much that bed looked slept in, Derek wasn’t getting any rest.

“You asked why I was back in Beacon Hills,” Derek said.

“No, I asked why you were at the Nemeton.”

Derek shook his head. “Before that. When I first arrived. At the pack meeting. You wanted to know why I was back in town. It’s the same answer.”

Stiles didn’t want to speak, for fear that it might make Derek change his mind. He gestured for Derek to continue.

“I was doing fine on my own,” he said. “I was traveling the country, I was seeing all the places Laura always promised me we would go together. I was in New Orleans when I felt this...discomfort in the pit of my stomach.”

Stiles cracked a smile and joked, lamely, “Did the beignets not agree with your werewolf sensibilities?”

Derek didn’t even bother with a response to that. “I felt unsettled. I thought maybe I had crossed into another pack’s territory in the city unwittingly, so I got out of there. But the feeling followed me everywhere I went, for months. It took me until I was in Yosemite to realize I’d felt this before: in New York, when Laura died and Scott was first bitten. I knew it had something to do with Beacon Hills. I thought something had happened to Scott, so I came as fast as I could. But when I got here he was fine.”

Stiles felt his heart rate pick up with every word out of Derek’s mouth. His entire life was unsettled. He didn’t know anyone else felt that way.

“I thought if I stayed, things would settle down. I thought maybe I’d been alone too long and that I needed to be near pack. But it’s only gotten stronger since I got here, so I went to the Nemeton out of curiosity. I didn’t expect to find anything,” Derek said, his gaze suddenly piercing into Stiles’. He reached out and wrapped his fingers tenuously around Stiles’ wrist, and tugged gently as he continued, his words firm and unforgiving, “I don’t know where that deer came from. But it’s not a good sign, Stiles. Something’s wrong in Beacon Hills.”

There was nothing Stiles could say in response to that. The implication was too big, too scary. The last time things had been wrong in Beacon Hills, there had been an Alpha Pack and a Darach in town. Stiles had literally sold his soul to the devil to fix things last time. He wasn’t prepared to do it again—he couldn’t.

There was nothing he could do, but lower himself onto the bed next to Derek, their thighs pressed together, as they both stared straight ahead. Neither of them spoke another word.

***

It was the next morning, and Stiles was about to head to school. The dishes in the sink told him that Dad had already left for the station, but from the closed door, Derek was still asleep upstairs. He’d almost knocked on the door to ask if Derek wanted any coffee before he’d stopped himself. Their conversation hadn’t progressed much after Derek’s admission: they’d sat together until Derek said the cruiser was pulling into the driveway, and then Stiles had left the room. When Dad had poked his head into his bedroom to check on Stiles, he’d pretended to be asleep. He hadn’t felt like talking anymore.

He didn’t feel like going to school, either, but if he wanted to be Salutatorian and keep Dad happy he would have to suck it up.

Stiles held a piece of toast between his teeth as he rummaged through his backpack for his keys and pushed open the front door. When he glanced up, his heart jumped to his throat and the piece of toast fell out of his mouth.

“Good morning,” Peter said from where he stood on the porch, a sunny smile spread across his face. “Long time no see, Stiles.”


	6. Chapter 6

Dad would forgive Stiles if he didn’t go to school that day. He had a worthwhile excuse for once: the appearance of a homicidal zombie werewolf at the front door would probably keep most people from leaving the house.

“Derek!” Stiles called up the stairs while never taking his eyes off Peter’s face. The older werewolf just grinned lazily. When he didn’t hear anything from upstairs, he tried again, this time with more urgency. “Derek—get down here! _Now!_ ”

The silence seemed to stretch on, but Peter perked up, his attention suddenly pulled to the stairs. Stiles watched the werewolf warily, distrust settled in the pit of his stomach. He assumed that Derek must be making some sort of noise that only Peter’s senses could pick up, but that didn’t ease his nerves. He turned his head slightly, so that the stairs were in his periphery while never removing his gaze from Peter. He stood stiffly, his back a rigid line of muscle, like prey in front of a predator, not wanting to attract any more of Peter’s attention. Peter’s focus was locked on Derek upstairs, and that was just fine with Stiles.

Moments later, Derek came fast down the stairs, still tugging on a maroon Henley. He was a blur of dark movement in Stiles’ peripheral vision, until he was standing by his side, staring at Peter on the porch.

“What,” Derek said, his tone clipped, “are you doing here?”

Peter held his hands up with his palms out. “I only just found out that you were back in town, nephew. Am I not allowed to welcome my family home?”

Derek’s jaw was set, his lips pressed into a thin line. Stiles wanted to say something, to step in between the two of them and try to figure out the situation, but in that moment, he realized that Derek had already placed himself in between Stiles and Peter. Almost as though he was unconsciously protecting Stiles from an outside threat.

He didn’t know when he became someone Derek instinctively thought to protect. He didn’t ask.

“You’ve welcomed me back. Now leave.” There was no argument in Derek’s voice, only a hint of a growl at the back of his throat, and then he was quickly moving to close the door when Peter’s hand shot out to stop him.

“Don’t be that way, nephew,” Peter said. “I thought maybe you’d like to talk about what’s been happening in Beacon Hills. That is, with someone who knows what they’re doing, and not a child.”

Stiles made a face. “Hey! I’m eighteen now. Who are you calling a child?”

Maybe it was stupid, but before he spoke, Stiles had actually managed to convince himself that Peter had forgotten he was standing there. All of his attention had been focused so surely on Derek, that Stiles had considered himself an afterthought. But with those few words, he watched as Peter’s fingers seemed to dig into the door. If his claws been out, he surely would have damaged the wood. Peter turned so that he was staring directly into Stiles’ eyes, seemingly completely oblivious to Derek’s movement as he stepped further in between them.

“In this specific instance, I was referring to your Alpha,” Peter said, his voice almost breathless. “You, however, seemed to have aged quite well since we last saw each other, Stiles.”

A shiver ran down the back of his neck. “Yeah, well, you look the same as ever. Half-dead instead of fully-dead like I’d prefer.”

“Now that isn’t polite,” Peter said. “Why don’t you make it up to me by inviting me inside?”

“I didn’t know there was such a thing as vampire-werewolves. Does that make me Stiles Stackhouse?” Stiles quipped. When nobody reacted to his _True Blood_ reference, he pushed forward. “Whatever—because I’d rather my dad not find my mutilated corpse in the living room when he gets home from work.”

Peter grinned, and Stiles saw that he’d allowed his fangs to drop. Peter reached his hand up to run his thumb along the point of his wolfish incisor. “If that’s what you’re so worried about, I could make it so you were never found.”

It could have come across as a joke, but to Stiles’ ears it rang true as a threat. He took an involuntary step backwards, his own hand reaching out to press against the line of Derek’s back, almost as though he were seeking out comfort. He needed to remind himself that Derek stood between them, a solid presence of werewolf strength, willing and able to fight Peter if it came down to that.

Derek didn’t temper his roar this time. He reached his arm back and brushed his fingers along Stiles’ forearm and growled, “You are not welcome here. Leave.”

“I do need to talk to you,” Peter said, ignoring Derek’s threats. He glanced down at his fingernails, that looked manicured from Stiles’ vantage, running his thumb over the tips of his fingers. “And I’m sure Stiles doesn’t want his neighbors to start gossiping about me. I could make quite the scene...or you could invite me in.”

Stiles couldn’t see Derek’s face, but he imagined his expression was thunderous. Whatever it was, Peter held his hands up once more. “I promise not to maim anyone, if that helps. It would be counterproductive to my needs for today.”

Ridiculous as it may sound, that promise did help. There weren’t many truths that Stiles could count on when it came to Peter Hale, but his self-serving nature was one of them. Killing Derek and Stiles in the Sheriff’s house would only cause more trouble for Peter than it was worth.

Stiles tugged on Derek’s long sleeve and whispered, “Just let him in.”

Derek turned to glare at him, disbelief etched into his features. Yet Stiles stared him down and nodded resolutely.

“I mean it. Let him in,” he said.

Peter stepped forward through the doorway, casually wrapping his palm around Derek’s bicep and pushing him aside. “Why, thank you, Stiles. I can always count on you to be the rational one.”

“Shut up,” said Stiles, reaching past the two Hales’ to push the door shut. “I’m just trying to avoid my nosy neighbor calling my dad. Let’s get some ground rules down first. You’re not allowed to go any further into my house than this five foot radius. Do not scent anything in my home, nobody wants your zombie stink hanging around. You have ten minutes to get out whatever you wanted to talk about, and then you better be gone. Or Derek will rip your throat open again. With his teeth.”

Peter cocked his head to the side. “That would cause quite a mess on your father’s carpet.”

Stiles shrugged. “Like I care. I can clean, and after all this time running with werewolves, you can bet I can get blood out of anything. My dad wouldn’t even have to know.”

Derek stood between them, his gaze flitting back and forth between Stiles and his uncle. At Stiles’ casual threat, he raised a single bushy eyebrow in his direction. Stiles didn’t let a single doubt cross his face, but reminded himself in the future not to be quite so quick to use the threat of Derek as a weapon.

Peter didn’t acknowledge Derek’s obvious discontent, choosing instead to inspect his nails. For a second, Stiles thought he might whip out his claws and a nail file. Instead, he gave a pitiful little sigh and raised his gaze to meet Stiles’. Placing a hand over where his heart should have been, he said, “I promise to abide by your ridiculous little house rules.”

Derek bared his teeth, but Stiles shrugged again. “Then we’re good. What do you know about what’s going on in Beacon Hills?”

“Keep it brief,” Derek said, glaring at Peter.

“Don’t you want to call your little Alpha so he can hear this all for himself?”

Stiles perched on the armrest of the sofa, his arms folded across his chest. Almost like he knew what the fuck he was doing, instead of just winging it. “Why should I bother my Alpha with your petty bullshit? If it’s important, I’ll relay the information to him. Until then, you can tell me and Derek.”

“What,” Peter asked. “No words of defense for my slight against your Alpha?”

Stiles glanced over at Derek, who was standing beside him, almost hoping that the werewolf would take it upon himself to answer. But he stayed silent, his gaze never leaving Peter. Which was when Stiles was reminded that Derek—despite living in the Stilinski home and having been the first werewolf Stiles ever met—wasn’t pack. His presence was convenient and nothing more. He had no reason to try and defend Scott from Peter’s attacks.

“Call him little if you want,” Stiles said. “It doesn’t bother me. You seem a little threatened though. The lady doth protest too much, I think.”

A sneer crossed Peter’s face, his lips curling back to reveal the whites of his teeth. His eyes flashed blue, and Stiles was reminded of the fact that Peter was the one who told him what those blue eyes meant. A shudder ran down his spine.

Peter said, “Scott may be a True Alpha. But I made him, and I know what he’s worth.”

“You _bit_ him,” Stiles corrected. “While on a mindless, homicidal rampage. And then we killed you. I don’t think you know much of anything.”

“I know that your Alpha has never been willing to make the hard choices,” he said. “He’d rather believe in happy endings, and wait until circumstances force him to act. Not like you, Stiles.”

Like a wolf, Stiles bared his teeth. “Scott doesn’t need to make the hard choices. That’s why he has me. And if you don’t start telling us what you know, I’ll make the _easy_ choice to hurt you.”

As if on cue, Derek flashed his own blue eyes.

“All right,” Peter said, his tone dismissive. “I’m sure you’ve noticed, but I haven’t been in Beacon Hills for quite some time. I had no plans to return and then things changed a few months ago. I felt a call.”

Stiles could sense Derek stiffen beside him. Peter’s eyes brightened.

“I see you already know what I mean.” Derek nodded, silent. “I was down in New Mexico for reasons that are none of your concern, when I started to feel the urge to return. More than a feeling—a drive. I couldn’t have ignored it even if I’d tried. My wolf needed to be in Beacon Hills.”

“That’s what Derek said,” Stiles confirmed, glancing at the werewolf beside him. He didn’t know why he was speaking for Derek when the man was perfectly capable of explaining himself. Almost as though he wanted to protect him.

Peter made to step closer to the two of them, but Derek let out a warning growl. The older man held his hands up, a sign of acquiescence. He said, “I can’t be sure, this is obviously only a hypothesis, but I believe it’s because we used to be Alpha’s of this territory. We may no longer hold the power, but our wolves will never forget. There is a piece of us that will always feel ownership over this land. There was a time when we were responsible for the territory, and our wolves still feel duty bound by that. Some might call it a paternal instinct.”

“More like paternalistic,” Stiles said, his 790 SAT verbal score coming in use. “Also you were a terrible Alpha who was responsible for nothing good, so shut the fuck up.”

Cutting him off, Derek asked, “Why do you think it’s related to us having been Alpha?”

“Do you see Cora with us? Or Jackson? No one else has felt the call. Once I realized you too had reappeared in town, it became obvious. The drive to protect our territory, our pack, from danger was too strong for our wolves to resist.”

Stiles let out a bark of laughter. “Pack? You don’t have a pack, Peter, you have a former grave. I’d love to reacquaint you with it.”

“You can keep quipping at me all you like, Stiles,” Peter said. “But the fact remains: our instincts, our base natures, will always be unknowable to you. You could never comprehend how our wolves see this world. See Beacon Hills.”

He waited for Derek to correct Peter, but the correction never came. When he turned to look at Derek, he found the other man staring down at the floor, refusing to make eye contact with either of them.

Stiles rubbed his hand across his face, frustration causing him to dig his fingers into the flesh of his cheek. “Fine, you two used to be Alpha’s, there’s something supposedly wrong—why doesn’t Scott, the _actual_ Alpha of Beacon Hills, sense anything?”

“Maybe he has, but he hasn’t told you. Or maybe he just can’t understand what he’s feeling,” Peter said. “You wouldn’t know, because your little Alpha likes to pretend he’s a human, but his wolf is a part of him. He can pretend that it’s not, try to deny its existence, ignore its warnings, but the wolf is connected to this territory. If Scott doesn’t sense that something is wrong, it’s because he doesn’t want to. Things are not safe in Beacon Hills.”

“So, your spidey senses tingled a little bit. That doesn’t tell us what _type_ of danger Beacon Hills is actually in. Derek and I already knew something was wrong, so what the hell can you add to our understanding of what’s going on?”

Peter bent his neck from one side to the other, cracking the bones with a careless ease. In that moment, he looked like every cliché movie villain Stiles had grown up being taught to avoid. The older werewolf spoke, his voice pitched low but deathly calm, “There have been a rash of Alpha murders across the west coast in the past year.”

Stiles felt his stomach drop at the words.

“Who?” Derek barked, stepping forward, his hands shooting out to curl into the lapels of Peter’s jacket. “How have I not heard about this?”

Peter gave a merciless laugh. “Can you honestly say you’ve been paying attention to pack politics this past year? You were off traipsing across the country with Cora, you had no reason to care what happened to your mother’s former allies. But in answer to your question: Alpha Walter, of the Kessler Pack in La Pine, Oregon. Alpha Delphine, of the Angus Pack in Metaline, Washington. Alpha Santiago, of the Rosario Pack in Los Osos, down in southern California. I can keep going. I know of at least a half dozen more.”

“We should have heard about this, shouldn’t we?” Stiles asked, feeling frantic. All those names. At least a half dozen more. How could this have been going on around them without any of them noticing?

Peter shrugged, the movement effortless. “Your pack is new, and small, and has no allies. It’s unsurprising that you weren’t aware of what was going on.”

“And the packs?” Derek asked. “How have they fallen apart?”

“They haven’t,” Peter said. “The Alpha power has been passed down to the next of kin. I’m not sure why. From what I’ve been told, everything about the murders points towards another werewolf as the culprit. But if that were the case, the Alpha power should be stolen. Yet, the power is continuing on as it should. Which means, whoever is doing the killing, they aren’t a werewolf.”

“How is this relevant to what’s going on in Beacon Hills?” asked Derek, his voice tight.

“I can’t be sure,” Peter mused, speaking slowly, his every word calculated. “But it can’t be a coincidence that Alpha’s are dying and suddenly Beacon Hills is calling back her former Alpha’s. If I had to make an educated guess, I would assume the territory recognizes a power vacuum.”

Derek made a noise that Stiles couldn’t entirely interpret: was it dismissive? Agreeing? He turned to Peter, his gaze flickering between the two Hale’s. “I don’t understand. How could there be a power vacuum? Beacon Hills has an Alpha.”

“Beacon Hills has a teenager,” Peter corrected. He sneered at Stiles, as though he were talking to a moron. “This territory is older than you or I can ever begin to comprehend. It has always been held by powerful packs lead by Alpha’s with years of experience under their belt. The McCall Pack is a hodgepodge of humans and bitten werewolves, lead by a teenager who, though a True Alpha, spends most of his time pretending he’s still human himself.”

When Stiles tried to interrupt, Peter stopped him. “I am not trying to insult your Alpha and my former beta; I’m explaining my hypothesis. Scott might have the power, but he doesn’t know how to use it or what he’s doing, and the territory can sense that. I don’t know if it’s connected to the murdered Alpha’s or not, but the territory is unstable.”

“It can’t be unstable,” Stiles argued. “Beacon Hills is a literal beacon, and we have a Nemeton. I think we would notice if the town were unsettled and volatile. We would be seeing more fall out if that were the case.”

“Like strangers making blood sacrifices to the Nemeton? Or am I to believe that neither of you found the dead buck at the Nemeton this week?”

Stiles was struck silent at the accusation, his mind leaping to the memory of Derek hunched over the bloody deer only days earlier. He glanced up, unbidden, and found Derek staring at him; the other man just as shocked.

Peter smirked. “You two may be twiddling your thumbs at the signs, but I’m being active. I’ve stopped at least three other supernatural creatures trying to cross into the territory unsanctioned. I’m doing my best to find whatever...thing...killed that deer.”

“Out of what, the goodness of your blackened heart? What’s your motivation here, Peter?” Stiles asked. “You’re not one for altruism, so I don’t understand what your game is. How does protecting Beacon Hills benefit you?”

Before Peter could answer, Derek spoke for him. “It’s like he said. The drive to protect this territory is still ingrained in us. We used to be Alpha’s...we can’t deny it even if we tried.”

“Maybe you couldn’t,” he said, harshly. “But Peter? Peter killed his niece—his Alpha! He caused mayhem and terror in Beacon Hills while he was the Alpha. I don’t think he’d have any trouble denying this urge if he wanted.”

Peter said, “You may not like me, Stiles, but the only reason you can sleep soundly at night is because I’m taking care of what the McCall Pack isn’t. Be sure to tell your Alpha that.”

He turned to Derek, and something in his expression almost softened. As though he were looking through time into the past and remembering what it was like to care for someone. Stiles didn’t trust it: this was Peter. He didn’t care for anyone.

“I just wanted to say hello to my favorite nephew, but now that I have, I’d best be on my way,” Peter said, bowing his head ever so slightly. Before either of them could say goodbye, he’d turned and walked out the door.

For a moment there was silence, and then:

“Your fucking uncle, man. He’s the goddamn worst,” Stiles said, storming over to the couch and throwing himself onto the cushions. He folded his arms across his chest and let out a frustrated puff of air.

Derek walked over to the couch, his movements more controlled than Stiles’. He lowered himself onto the edge of the couch cushion, and buried his face in his hands.

Stiles wanted to say something—anything—to try and comfort Derek, but what was there to say? _Sorry you’re related to that piece of shit? Sorry I called him the worst?_ It would not only be a lie, and since Derek was an honest-to-god lie detector, it would be an exercise in futility. Instead he sat back up and tentatively reached out, his hand coming down gently on Derek’s shoulder. He rubbed small circles into the fabric of the Henley as soothingly as possible.

“Do you believe him?” Derek asked, his voice muffled in the palm of his hands.

It wasn’t the question Stiles was expecting, but it was one he could easily answer nonetheless.

“Fuck no,” Stiles said. “Your uncle is a pathological liar and a murderer. I say we verify every single thing he told us before we put an ounce of faith in anything he said. For all we know, the Kessler Pack Alpha is alive and well and nobody’s been murdered there in fifty years. La Pine isn’t exactly the murder capital of the west coast.”

Derek was nodding along with what Stiles said. He rubbed his hands vigorously across his face before leaning back against the couch, his head tilted back so he could stare at the ceiling.

He said, “We know he was telling at least some of the truth. The deer. My wolf being called back to Beacon Hills.”

“That’s two true things. Out of all the lies Peter has told over the years, that doesn’t bolster my confidence very much,” Stiles said.

Stiles waited for Derek to agree readily with him, but it didn’t come. Instead, the werewolf was silent, still staring blankly at the ceiling. Stiles watched him expectantly, waiting.

Derek finally said, “He’s always been a liar, even before the fire. But...there used to be a purpose to his lies. To pull a prank on me, or convince my mother that he hadn’t done anything wrong, or get out of doing the household chores. We used to spend a lot of time together back then. He was like an older brother to me, instead of an uncle. I can’t figure out why he’d be lying now.”

There was a beat of silence, and Stiles wanted, desperately, to remind Derek that Peter had lied about Paige. They’d never talked about it—Stiles had always planned to ask Derek about the whole story, never entirely trusting Peter’s rendition of the events. But so much happened between Peter telling Stiles and Cora about Paige and Derek leaving town. There was no time to sit down with the werewolf, to ask him about his first love, and Peter’s part in her death.

Stiles wasn’t even sure if Derek blamed Peter for what happened to her—he should. It was clear that Peter had manipulated the situation out of some twisted curiosity to see what would happen, but it was also clear that Derek liked to shoulder the blame of others. Like Kate.

“Who knows what Peter’s motivations are for anything,” Stiles answered. “But we can’t trust him on blind faith.”

Derek didn’t acknowledge Stiles’ words. Instead, he said, “I think I could have forgiven him for what he did as the Alpha. I understand the need to kill Kate and everyone else who helped set the fire. I even understand biting Scott and Lydia. The drive to create a pack is so strong in wolves, especially Alpha’s. And he was half out of his mind after those six years.”

Stiles turned to gawp at Derek, indignation rising in him. Turning Scott? Mauling Lydia? Neither of those things were forgivable offenses. He was ready to put Derek in his place, when the other man continued speaking.

His voice sounded small, barely above a whisper. He didn’t meet Stiles’ eyes as he spoke, his words measured but tight, as though there was so much more Derek wasn’t saying.

“I could forgive him for everything except for Laura. I’ll never understand how he could do that. How he could... _kill_ his own flesh and blood. When we were kids, she loved him so much. He was her favorite, she hung on his every word, and he just...he murdered her. For power.”

His voice got smaller, more wounded, as he repeated, “I can’t forgive that.”

There was nothing to say to that. There were no words to soothe that ache. Stiles didn’t try.

***

Stiles didn’t go to school that day. He got Lydia to drop off their assignments in the evening, and when she tried to come in the house to catch up, he shook his head and lead her back out. Things had been quiet after the conversation in the living room. Derek had disappeared to his room and hadn’t come back out, not even when Stiles knocked on his door and offered him the spaghetti meatballs he’d thrown together.

(It was actually meatballs with carrot and zucchini hidden in the sauce, because Stiles had learned long ago that if Dad couldn’t see the vegetables, he was much more likely to enjoy the meal. Like an adorable toddler.)

So, Stiles had kept quiet with Derek. He spent the whole day listening to music with his headphones on, doing his best to keep the sound to a minimum. He’d texted his dad at some point, explained the skip day, and given him a heads up regarding Derek’s current mood. When the door had opened, and Dad had walked into the house, Stiles was ready to greet him with a bowl of spaghetti and the biography about Babe Ruth that he was reading. Dad had given Stiles a knowing look and gone into his study to eat and read without making any ruckus.

They weren’t unfamiliar with this type of thing. There were some nights when Stiles came home and found Dad sitting at the kitchen table, an unopened bottle of Jack in front of him and their old family photo albums splayed out. Stiles knew to entertain himself on those evenings, to leave Dad alone, venturing only as far as to wrap his arms around the man for a brief moment before disappearing into his room.

And then there were the nights where Dad came home and found Stiles in his bedroom, three hours deep into a research binge that had nothing to do with anything except for the fact that it gave him the perfect distraction. Kept him from thinking about the Argent basement and two terrified sets of eyes staring at him. Dad knew to keep quiet on those nights, to bring Stiles a sandwich or something else non-perishable that he could eat whenever he got around to noticing the plate was on his desk.

So, this was nothing new, just slightly different. They weren’t familiar with Derek’s needs yet. Stiles wasn’t even sure if they’d have to learn anything: he still wasn’t sure how long Derek was planning on staying in Beacon Hills, let alone in the Stilinski home. Yet Stiles was willing to try.

Stiles was in his bedroom working on his Economics homework and finishing his second bowl of spaghetti when he heard some mumbling. He pulled out earbuds, curiosity and confusion getting the better of him as he strained to hear where the mumbling was coming from.

“...m fine, Cora. I just wanted to hear your voice...yeah, things are good here. I’m good here.”

Derek’s voice was still muffled, but Stiles could hear it through their shared bedroom wall. He smiled to himself, putting his earbud back in. He didn’t want to eavesdrop.

He turned up the volume on his music, and kept working.


	7. Chapter 7

Stiles spun around on the stool he was sitting on. His pen raised, he stared into the emptiness of the room, ready to call out Deaton’s name. Yet the man wasn’t there. Stiles frowned, a niggling sense of doubt crawling into the back of his brain. He’d been so sure that he’d felt something pass through the wards, but there was nothing to be found. He turned back to the book and sighed, throwing his pen on the table in exasperation.

“That was an improvement on your other attempts,” a voice said.

Stiles made a startled noise, spinning the stool around. Deaton was standing in front of him, exactly where Stiles had been staring only moments before. His jaw dropped. “Wait—what? How are you there?”

Deaton made a noncommittal sound, as though acknowledging he’d heard Stiles’ questions despite no intention to answer them. He took a seat on the other stool close to the wall and clasped his hands in his lap.

He asked, “What did the wards feel like when you felt me pass through them?”

“You are an unhelpful person,” Stiles said fondly, closing the book and twirling in his stool a few more times just for the hell of it. He only stopped when he heard Deaton clear his throat from the other side of the room. “How do you know I felt it? Maybe I was just reacting to a sound coming from that menagerie you keep back there.”

A smile graced Deaton’s lips as he shook his head. “I don’t think you can call my kennel of house pets a menagerie.”

“ _Anything_ can be a menagerie.”

Stiles wasn’t sure what made Deaton decide to train him. It couldn’t have been only because of his potential—there were sure to be plenty of people alive with the potential for magical talent. There were probably even people around Beacon Hills. The librarian who scolded Stiles yesterday for talking too loud could have magical potential, or the barista who had laughed and given him a refill when he’d accidentally dropped his coffee moments after she gave it to him could have potential. With the way Stiles harassed Deaton with his shenanigans (because that’s what Deaton said they were) the effort to train Stiles had to be more trouble than it was worth.

Yet here they were. Months later and Deaton was still putting up with him. Day in and day out, as though silently reminding Stiles that he could count on Deaton even if he couldn’t count on anyone else. No matter how much he tested the premise.

It was comforting, actually.

It was also why Stiles didn’t want to be a total asshole and waste Deaton’s time. So, he straightened up and considered the question seriously, before he said, “I don’t know if I can put it into words, but it felt...wrong, almost? The same way it would if I were home alone and somebody came in through the back door. I could just sense that I wasn’t alone anymore, y’know? I almost shuddered when I realized it. But then I turned around to catch you and you weren’t there, which means you definitely need to teach me how you hid yourself. Do you have an invisibility cloak hidden somewhere in the office, Harry Potter?”

“That’s for another day,” said Deaton.

“Okay, sure, but how about you change your mind and tell me today?”

Stiles knew other people thought Lydia was the champion of the side-eye, but that was only because they’d never seen Deaton’s. The veterinarian never failed to make Stiles second-guess his own existence with just a glance.

Deaton leaned forward on the stool and rested his elbows on his knees, curling his fingers beneath his chin, and stared at Stiles. He fidgeted in his seat beneath the heat of the stare, unsure what to make of the scrutiny.

Deaton said, “We’re almost at the end of today’s lesson. I thought perhaps you might like to talk over some things with me.”

“What things?” Stiles asked, tilting his head to the side.

Deaton raised an eyebrow.

He grimaced, ducking his head down and scratching at his chin. From the corner of his eye, he could see his backpack. He wondered if Deaton knew about the extra jars of Wolfsbane he’d taken to carrying around with him since Peter had shown up.

He asked, “What do you know about Peter?”

“I know plenty about Peter Hale. I’ve known him for all of his life, after all,” Deaton replied.

Stiles rolled his eyes. Right, Deaton preferred when he was precise. Always get right down to the brass tacks, never sugarcoat a situation. He pulled himself up, met Deaton’s gaze, and asked, “Is Peter a concern?”

Deaton looked ready to answer but Stiles stopped him, still rambling, “He turned up to talk to Derek. Told us about a spree of Alpha killings going on across the West Coast. I didn’t know if we should trust him at first, but everything he said turned out to be true. He told us a lot of other things too, but I don’t know what to make of him or even what his pack status is. Is he an Omega?”

That gave Deaton a moment’s pause. Stiles could tell from the way the older man didn’t move—nothing to give away what he could possibly be thinking.

Finally, Deaton said slowly as though testing out the words as he spoke them, “He should be. Derek was his Alpha until he sacrificed the power for Cora. As far as I know, Peter hasn’t found himself a new pack.”

The answer spurred Stiles on. “Is Cora an Omega? Is Derek?”

It had been the question that had bothered Stiles most since Derek’s return. Everything he knew about werewolves was that they couldn’t survive without an Alpha or a pack. Omega’s went feral. So, how could Derek have spent the previous night talking amicably with Dad about his shift that day? How was Derek not frothing at the mouth and attacking every human that he came into contact with?

“I don’t know, Stiles,” Deaton sighed. “I’ve never known another Alpha who was able to sacrifice their power the way Derek did. I don’t understand how that affects the pack bond, or how the pack survives without an Alpha afterwards. Are they still a pack? I don’t know. I’m sorry.”

“Hey,” he said. “Why are you saying sorry? Beacon Hills is ridiculous, with all our Kanima’s and True Alpha’s and Banshee’s. Nobody understands anything around here; you fit right in.”

Deaton chuckled, a smile pulling at his lips. The softness didn’t last. It took only a moment before his expression grew grim again, his lips settling into a firm line.

“You asked what I knew about Peter and if he was a concern,” Deaton said, standing up and heading to the door. He glanced back at Stiles, his hand on the doorknob. “I know just enough to know the answer should always be yes. It doesn’t matter what he says to you—after those six years and being killed then resurrected…he’ll never be sane. He will always be a concern. Never let him through your defenses, because he will take advantage and he will harm you and anyone else you care about.”

Stiles nodded solemnly as he watched Deaton shut the door behind him, but internally he wasn’t sure. Peter had done plenty of genuinely evil things over the years. Stiles regretted nothing about helping to kill him; he could still feel the heat of the flames from Peter after throwing the Molotov Cocktails with Jackson. He had deserved that—he’d murdered Laura and attacked Lydia and threatened Stiles.

But it was hard to forget the driving factor behind every single one of Peter’s moves: the original house fire. Sometimes Stiles tried to imagine what Peter must have been like before that day. Everything he’d heard told him the man would have still been just as crafty and manipulative. Would he have been malicious though? Or would he have used his skills to help the Hale Pack, to aid his sister in protecting their territory. Nobody would ever know. Kate took that future away from Peter, and Derek, and the rest of them.

Stiles shuddered at the reminder that Peter had survived at all, at the memory of Peter’s half burnt face. Peter had burned alive in the basement of his home, surrounded by his family as he watched them burn to death. It had to have changed him, no matter what anyone said he was like before. For a brief, hot second, Stiles’ imagination conjured an image of Dad burning, screaming, dying. It hurt just to picture.

Peter deserved so much that had happened to him and more, but never that.

***

Stiles walked out the front door, his book bag held close to his body as he dug for his car keys lost somewhere towards the bottom with all the other wayward debris. The night sky was dark and Deaton’s parking lot only had one working street lamp which made it difficult to look through his bag. Stiles made a note to mention it to Dad later—there had to be someone on the city council the sheriff would know who could take care of this. He blindly shoved his hand around until he felt the familiar cool metal of his key ring and pulled it out triumphantly.

He looked up to find his jeep and saw Derek leaning against Roscoe.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, after finally pulling his jaw off the floor.

Derek looked up, his dark hair sticking up from the back of his head like he had only just woken up from a nap moments ago. Stiles wondered if maybe that’s exactly what Derek had been doing: sleeping in the guest bed in the middle of the day because he felt safe in the guest room.

His hands were in his pockets, pulling the leather jacket closer to his body to block out the late Winter chill. He scuffed the toe of his boots against the loose gravel in Deaton’s parking lot before he finally spoke.

There were few things that could still surprise Stiles. What Derek said next was one of them.

“I thought we could go pick up dinner for your dad and take it to the Sheriff’s station.”

“Uh,” Stiles stammered. His heart beat against the inside of his chest. “What?”

“Your dad said he had another late shift and I just thought…” Derek broke off before finishing his sentence, turning abruptly away from Stiles. “Whatever, never mind. I’ll see you back at h—your house.”

Before Derek could storm off, Stiles stepped forward, closing the distance between them. He reached out and put his hand on Derek’s arm.

“Wait.”

He watched Derek stare down at his hand. A part of him thought he should remove his hand and stop touching the werewolf, but the other part, the louder one, made him hold his ground.

He waited until Derek raised his head so that they were looking at each other. He flashed Derek a weak smile, and said, “So long as it’s a salad, I’m okay with that idea.”

“A salad and a grilled chicken sandwich,” Derek countered immediately.

A warmth blossomed in the pit of Stiles’ stomach as he smiled at Derek. _Someone else was thinking of Dad_. It was so unexpected, so unabashedly welcome, that he didn’t even bother trying to argue against the sandwich. Instead, he let go and wrapped his arm around Derek’s shoulders, and led them both towards his jeep. “Sounds like a plan.”

***

Stiles gave Derek the bag of food to hold in his lap as they climbed back in the jeep. He started up the engine and was just turning onto the main road, when Derek spoke.

“What does Beacon Hills feel like to you?”

Stiles glanced over at Derek and arched an eyebrow. “That’s not a weird and ominous question, at all.”

They were stopped at a red light, and he watched as Derek glowered at his own hands gripping the bag that held their dinner. He shrugged, his movements stiff, as though it was a struggle for Derek to react properly under Stiles’ gaze. So, Stiles turned away and focused on the road, pressing down on the gas once the light had turned green and waited for Derek to explain.

“Last week, you said you had a connection to the Nemeton,” Derek said gruffly in lieu of explanation.

Stiles shrugged. “You also said that as a werewolf you could sense that I was lying.”

“I meant, that you were lying about how you knew I’d been in the Preserve, not about the connection,” Derek said. He was quiet for a moment, his grip tightening on the folded edge of the brown paper bag. He asked, “Does the town feel different to you?”

 _Yes_.

The fact was, Beacon Hills did feel different to Stiles. Had for months now. He had tried, fruitlessly, to talk about it with Scott and Allison. They had sacrificed themselves to the Nemeton too, so it made sense to assume that they felt the same uneasiness that he did. Yet, every time he broached the subject, they looked at him with confusion.

They had all gone through the same thing together, and yet, it was as though that were the last time they had been in the same place together. Ever since, Stiles had felt himself drifting further and further away from his friends and their sense of belonging.

Reaching out, he flipped on his blinker and moved into the right lane. He sighed, and said, “It’s hard to put it into words. Things haven’t felt right since the night of the ice baths.”

That was putting it mildly. Beacon Hills reminded him of the dank, suffocating stench of the soil, of his father’s hands scrambling to wrap around him as the roots of the Nemeton shook. The feeling of suffocation was so starkly familiar for him; he didn’t know how to tell Derek that Beacon Hills was the same. Like Stiles was choking around clumps of dirt that someone was forcing down his throat.

He didn’t know how to say the words, and so he didn’t. Instead, he kept his gaze locked on the empty road in front of him and said, “A while ago, toward the end of last school year, a Wendigo crossed into the territory. I don’t know who told Scott about it first—Allison’s dad or Deaton, someone who could recognize the signs. But…before then. Before we knew anything was wrong, I could feel it.”

The jeep rolled to a stop at a red light. He took a deep breath and shifted his body slightly, so that he could glance at Derek from beneath his lashes. Derek was staring at him, his chest barely moving as though he was holding his breath. Stiles met his gaze and felt his own breath catch.

“It didn’t matter if I was in class or at home in bed or practicing lacrosse: I knew the Nemeton was getting stronger, I could feel it everywhere I went. Like it was feeding.”

He kept talking, the light green but his foot still on the brake.

He remembered sitting in class, fully aware that he hadn’t eaten since his early dinner with Dad the night before, and yet he felt completely sated. He had to force himself to eat at every meal, his stomach overstuffed and aching with every gluttonous bite. He didn’t understand at the time: rationally, Stiles knew that he had eaten very little, but unbeknownst to him, the Nemeton was gorging itself on something powerful—something dangerous.

It took a week before Stiles (or rather, the Nemeton) felt satiated. As though the Nemeton was grateful to have something so supernaturally powerful within its territory. Then everything made an abrupt shift. Instead of feeling pleasantly full, he felt on edge. It was like the kanima was roaming around again: hyper vigilance dictated his every action. He didn’t know what was causing it, didn’t understand what had happened.

And then Scott had called for a pack meeting. Explained that there was a Wendigo in the territory, attacking people. They thought it was living in the Preserve.

Stiles immediately thought of the Nemeton. Of the week he’d spent uncomfortably full. Of the goosebumps that covered his skin no matter how comfortable he tried to make himself.

He waited for Allison or Scott to describe the same sensations, but the moment never came. If they’d felt it, they never said anything, and if they didn’t…Stiles didn’t want to ask.

A car horn blared, pulling Stiles out of the memory as he turned and saw a small sedan speed around them. He shook his head, and pressed down on the gas. The jeep slowly began to move again, the wheels turning as Stiles continued.

“We worked together with my dad and the sheriff’s station to track down the thing. Dad knew the truth, obviously, but everyone else thought it was some delirious lost hiker. People who glimpsed it kept describing it as a human,” he grimaced. “Covered in blood. We got lucky, nobody died before we managed to kill it but still. It was so close. That was the first time I realized how strong the connection was.”

He pulled into the Sheriff’s station parking lot and parked. Neither of them made a move to get out of the jeep.

He asked, “What does Beacon Hills feel like to you?”

Derek shrugged. “It feels…unsettled. I don’t know if I still feel it because of what Peter said—being a former Alpha. Maybe it’s because we’re Hales…our family had had a connection to this territory for so long. It felt a little like this when Laura died, and I was only a Beta.”

His voice got smaller, the same way it always did whenever he spoke about Laura. Like it still pained him to think of her, let alone talk about her.

Stiles thought of blood on her temple and the way her hair had been carefully brushed away from her face.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Scott and I…we should never have done what we did. We should have left her grave alone.”

Derek made a noise, turning away from Stiles. He said, his tone curt, “There’s nothing to be sorry for.”

Maybe another person would have let it go at that. They might have comforted themselves that they had made the effort, finally made the apology, and just accepted Derek’s dismissal.

That had never been Stiles’ way.

He reached across the center console and grabbed Derek’s wrist. Derek looked down at his hand and then up at Stiles’ face. He tightened his grip slightly, and said, putting as much emphasis on his words that he could, “There is something to say sorry for. Scott should too.”

“Stiles—”

He cut him off with, “Derek. I am so, so sorry.”

He could have elaborated. A part of him almost wanted to, but Derek was looking at him with an unreadable expression, half his face in shadow. He didn’t know how long they sat there like that, staring at each other openly. Finally, someone walked out of the station—it looked like Parrish—waving back at someone inside, calling out goodbye. It must have been the end of his shift.

Stiles let go of Derek’s wrist and moved to pull his key out of the ignition. Derek was gathering the bag of food in his arms when Stiles made a noise. He turned to look at him.

Stiles asked, the question that had been on his mind since he’d first learned that Derek and Cora had left Beacon Hills and had no plans to return. “Are you in a pack?”

Derek hesitated. Then, “I don’t know.”

Stiles put his hand on the door handle. He looked at Derek and said, quickly like it was a secret, “I don’t know if I’m in one either.”

Before Derek could react, Stiles was already out the jeep and half way towards the station doors.

***

Dad came to greet them after Laurie, the receptionist, let him know they were there. He walked out smiling, with a bemused expression on his face to see the both of them standing there. He hugged Stiles and then reached out to clap Derek on the back.

“What are you two doing here? Do you need anything?”

Stiles gestured to the bag in Derek’s hand, “Nah, Pops. We decided to bring you dinner. Well, actually Der—”

Derek interrupted him before he could continue. “Stiles thought you might like a grilled chicken sandwich since you’re working the late shift. There’s also a salad in there, but maybe you can save that for lunch tomorrow.”

Stiles smacked his arm. “Don’t encourage my dad to eat only carbs and skip out on his veggies.” He turned to Dad, “If anything you should split it evenly. Half the sandwich and half the salad for dinner tonight, and then the rest for lunch tomorrow.”

“And what did you two bring for dinner for yourselves to torture me?” He glanced at Derek and gave a small smile, amused by their antics.

Derek made a surprised sound. “Oh no, sir, we weren’t planning on intruding. We’ll just head back h—to the house and eat there. You can get back to work.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Dad said and took the bag of food from Derek’s hands. “I’d rather take my break with the two of you now than wait until I’m half asleep and by myself at three in the morning.”

He turned and walked back to his office, taking all of their dinners with him. Stiles glanced over at Derek and shrugged, before following Dad. He didn’t have to turn around to know Derek was following them.

Inside the Sheriff’s office, Dad was already unpacking all of their meals. He began to unwrap his sandwich when Derek said, “Why don’t you start with your salad?”

“That,” Stiles said, “is an awesome idea, thank you, Derek. Yeah, Dad. Why don’t you start with the salad? We got your favorite: mixed greens and plenty of veggies with light dressing. Yum!”

Dad groaned. “You two will be the death of me.”

“I think it’s the opposite, sir. If anything, Stiles and I will extend your life by several years.”

Stiles grinned at Derek and raised his hand for a high five. The werewolf rolled his eyes but dutifully leaned forward to give him a high five. Stiles pumped his fist excitedly and said, softly and mostly to himself, “Success!”

Dad handed both of them their sandwiches and chips. He looked at Derek and said, “You shouldn’t encourage him, son. Now he’ll never let you be when he deems something worthy of a high five.”

“Don’t listen to my father,” Stiles said, in between chewing his dinner. “He thinks he’s above it all but he’s not. I’ve seen him high fiving the deputies, and Melissa, and our neighbors. Basically, anyone who isn’t me, because he likes to deprive his child and he’s evil.”

“You’ve figured me out. I high five everyone but you on purpose,” Dad said, rolling his eyes at Derek fondly.

Stiles narrowed his eyes but before he could say anything, Derek interrupted, “You shouldn’t give away your plans. You never know what Stiles will do with that information.”

“You’re right,” Dad said.

“Want one of my chips?” Derek asked, holding the bag out to him as an offering.

Dad smiled, plucked a chip out of the bag and into his mouth. Then, without a moment’s hesitation, he held his hand up for a high five, that Derek gleefully returned.

Stiles palmed his face and groaned.

“Oh, my God,” he said. “You guys aren’t even funny, you’re the worst. Derek, stop giving my dad chips. Dad, stop high fiving people, especially when they’re not me. What is wrong with both of you!”  

Neither of them answered. Instead, Derek pressed his fist against his mouth and tried to stifle his laughter. On the other side of the desk, Dad had no shame: he laughed loudly, tipping back in his office chair to clutch at his belly. Behind him, Stiles could see the wall covered in notes and city maps, the case files propped up on his bookshelf, and the familiar handful of family photos that Mom had forced him to put up so many years ago. One of the photos was a candid shot of Mom at a holiday party, her eyes squinting at the flash from the camera with her lips spread wide, the shot catching her mid-laugh.

Stiles tried to hold onto his faux anger, but their laughter was so contagious, it didn’t take long before he joined them. It was hard to remember that there was anything worth worrying about when he was sitting between the two of them, their happiness ringing in his ears.

They stayed in that office for the rest of the hour, chatting and laughing and teasing, until Dad finally had to kick them out so he could get back to work. Stiles and Derek left together, still smiling, both of them turning back to wave at Dad as he watched them go.


	8. Chapter 8

Stiles was running. He couldn’t see two feet in front of him, but it must have been cold because the only thing he could see was his breath misting in front of him and then quickly dissipating into the darkness. He couldn’t feel the chill though; he could only feel an overwhelming sense of fear. A knowing that someone— _something_ —was right behind him, was going to get him, going to drag him down into the mud and the roots and the void where he would never be able to dig his way out. Forever trapped. He tried to run faster, tried to force his legs to pump harder, but nothing was fast enough. His throat seized up, his eyes bulged, he opened his mouth to try and scream but felt the claws closing around his neck, his blood raising to the surface—

“Get up.”

Someone shoved Stiles roughly. He jolted awake, his heart racing a mile a minute as he tried to take in the situation. The bright red numbers of his digital clock read two-thirty-eight AM, which didn’t immediately make any sense to Stiles. He’d gone to bed a little after twelve o’clock and it felt like he’d only just closed his eyes. Had it really been two hours already?

Someone shoved him again. He turned, ready to fight, the blankets falling to his waist as he sat up with his arms thrust out in front of him, only to find a fully dressed Derek standing over the bed. It felt as though he’d just competed in a marathon and lost.

“Stiles,” Derek growled. “Get the fuck up. There’s howling coming from the Preserve.”

Still sleep-addled, the only thing Stiles could think to do was pull his blankets up to cover his bare chest. Disoriented, he gaped at Derek and said, “Wait, what?”

Derek leaned down, grabbed a dirty t-shirt from the ground, and threw it at Stiles. “Get dressed and meet me downstairs.”

They hadn’t been alone together since that night a week ago after dinner at the Sheriff’s Station. Stiles had thought it had just been a coincidence, but now he wondered if Derek hadn’t gone out of his way to design it like that.

He struggled to pull the shirt over his head, Stiles’ arms getting caught in the sleeves, as he asked, “Do you really want me to go with you?”

“What, you have no problem stalking me in the Preserve but you’re not willing to go there with me?” Derek asked, arching an eyebrow.

Stiles opened his mouth to reply and promptly shut it. He had a point.

Derek said, “That’s what I thought. Be ready in two minutes or I’m leaving you behind.”

He didn’t wait for a response. He turned, his movements stiff, and walked out of Stiles’ bedroom without turning back to check and see if Stiles was getting out of bed. He wasn’t sure if that meant Derek trusted him to follow, or if he simply didn’t care. Stiles tried not to think too much about it and hoped for the best.

He tried not to think too much about whatever he’d been dreaming about before, either. It couldn’t have been anything good.

Stiles got out of bed and started to quickly get dressed.

***

The longer Stiles was awake, the more dread he began to feel. Derek was sitting beside him in the passenger seat, the roads were empty, and the weather app on his phone told him it was below freezing. He wanted to ask a thousand questions, but none of them could reach the tip of his tongue. It was like there was a blockage barricading the words inside of him. Not figuratively: literally. Like a preternatural force was not only behind the barrier, but _was_ the barrier.  

 _How do you know it’s not Scott and the rest of the pack_ , he wanted to ask. Not because he thought it could be Scott or the others, but because it felt like a question that should be asked. As though he shouldn’t already know the answer. But as he drove down the empty road, the route to the Preserve as familiar to Stiles as the shortcut to Scott’s house, he kept getting flashes of dirt blocking his vision.

It made no sense, but he could have sworn that someone was trying to bury him.

Stiles shook his head, cleared his vision of whatever sleep induced hallucination that was, and focused on Derek’s voice instead.

“I didn’t recognize the howl,” Derek said, unprompted. “I don’t think it’s a werewolf. But I don’t think it’s natural to the Preserve either.”

Stiles blew past a stop sign, rolled down his window, and sucked in deep mouthfuls of fresh air. He let his eyelids flutter shut for a moment, opened them again, and felt clear headed for the first time since he’d woken up. He looked to his side and said, “I haven’t sensed any intruders passing through the territory the last week or so.”

“Sensed?”

He shrugged and pressed his foot on the gas as they rounded a corner, as he tried to explain, “It’s something Deaton’s been training me. I’m pretty good with knowing when someone supernatural comes into Beacon Hills uninvited. It’s when they’re trying to cover their tracks that I’m not 100% on. But I’ve been getting better and I haven’t felt anything this past week.”

Derek dipped his chin to his chest and took a deep breath. When he lifted his head, he replied, his words slow as he seemed to speak his thoughts out loud, “Then either they’ve been in town longer than that, or you missed them. Either way, they’re in the Preserve now.”

“Maybe they’re gone?” Stiles offered. He glanced at Derek hopefully, “I mean, I haven’t heard anything since we’ve been on the road. I know I don’t have werewolf hearing but still. You’d think I’d hear something.”

Derek shook his head resolutely. But Stiles wasn’t sure how much to believe him: there was an uneasy air about Derek. A moment where he caught his bottom lip between his teeth and seemed to almost doubt himself. Or maybe it was just the overall effect of having been woken by Derek in the middle of the night. He must have gotten just as hastily dressed as Stiles had—his henley looked rumped, and well-worn like he’d been sleeping it. There were thumb holes at the end of the sleeves that made Stiles wonder if this wasn’t Derek’s go-to sleep shirt. The dark jeans he’d pulled on had a stain on the left pocket and, glancing upwards, he suspected that Derek had run his fingers through his hair more than once to try and force it from simply laying flat on his forehead.

He just looked so young.  

“Maybe,” Derek said, rolling down his own window and looking out at the thicket of trees. A quick glance at the dashboard told Stiles that it was just past three in the morning. The last full moon had been two weeks earlier, and the next one was just as far away. There was no moon to shine any additional light on the dark, deserted roads they sped down. Yet they were out, in the middle of the night, getting ready to trek down something howling in the Preserve. “Not likely, though.”

Stiles tightened his grip on the steering wheel and said nothing.

They drove in silence for another few minutes, before Derek directed Stiles to the side of the road. He said, “Let’s start here.”

Stiles pulled off to the side of the road and then, after a moment of hesitation, proceeded to step on the gas and drive off the pavement and towards the trees. He couldn’t pull the Jeep too far forward as the forest was too dense, but hopefully it was enough to camouflage the car from any curious civilians driving by. He turned the motor off and threw on the emergency break just to be safe.

To his right, Derek moved to open the passenger side door. Stiles threw out an arm across Derek’s chest, “Wait.”

The werewolf looked at him with a mix of apprehension and frustration. He asked, “What? Why?”

Stiles didn’t reply, choosing instead to unbuckle his seat belt and twist around to start digging in the backseat. He ignored Derek’s murmurs of confusion, and chose to focus all of his attention on dragging his hand along the bottom of the Jeep floor until his fingers brushed against the straps of his backpack that he’d thought to bring with them. He wrapped the strap around his hand and hauled it up towards the front seat. Settling back in his seat, he propped the bag in his lap and began to open all of the zippers, digging through the pockets.

“I don’t know how long that thing will stay,” Derek said. “Forget about your bag and let’s get out there.”

Stiles grunted his acknowledgement and kept searching through his bag, faster than before. He pleaded, “Just wait.”

He wasn’t facing him but Stiles could feel the heavy stare that Derek was directing at him. He chose to ignore it in favor of what was more important.  He pulled out his textbooks and dumped them in the backseat before hefting it up and turning the bag upside down so that the contents all spilled into his lap. Derek made a noise of distress that Stiles ignored. He felt around the pile until he grabbed what he’d been looking for.

“Success,” Stiles said, a triumphant grin spreading across his lips as he held his open palm out towards Derek, revealing two little glass vials that would help them in their search.

***

Derek was moving up ahead of him when another howl penetrated the night sky. Stiles spun around, wildly searching for the source of the sound but saw nothing but the deep, impenetrable darkness of the Preserve. He jogged a little to catch up.

“It’s weird not being able to smell you,” Derek said, unprompted, as he turned to look at Stiles. Then, just as quickly, he turned away and looked out towards the trees. “I think that was coming from over there.”

“But useful.” Stiles glanced around them and wished once more that Derek would let him pull out his phone to use the flashlight. “If Deaton would teach me how, I could hide us better but apparently I’m not ready for that yet. So, we’ll have to make due with covering our scents and trying to be as quiet and careful as possible.”

Which, clearly, Stiles wasn’t doing too well at following through on.

Derek cut him a glance and Stiles mimed zipping his mouth shut and throwing away the key. Points for cheesiness aside, he forced himself to stay silent as they walked deeper into the Preserve. As the forest grew denser, Stiles could see less and less, until he found himself reaching out to curl his fingers into Derek’s henley.

They kept walking until they finally came to a clearing the woods: specifically, the clearing that lead directly to the burnt remains of the Hale house. Stiles wasn’t sure if Derek had realized where the howling was leading them, but he felt when the werewolf seemed to stumble for a brief moment. His fingers uncurled quickly and pressed flat against Derek’s back, in a way he hoped would show Derek his support and give him the strength to move forward.

“C’mon,” Stiles whispered, moving ahead of Derek. He gripped Derek’s wrist and pulled him along towards the house. “We’ll check it out and then move on our way.”

They crept up to the decrepit porch. There wasn’t much Stiles could contribute to this investigation, but he moved in tandem with Derek nonetheless. Once again, Derek came to a stop at the top of the stairs. Only a few years ago he had been living in the burnt out shell of this house, but so much had changed since then. The Derek who had lived in this reminder of all that had gone wrong wasn’t the person who slept in Stiles’ guest bedroom and made turkey bacon and eggs for Dad in the morning. If Derek couldn’t cross the last few steps, Stiles could do it for him.

So he moved forward, pushed the front door open, and lead Derek into the front foyer. Everything looked the same, just with an extra layer of dust and fallen leaves. The exposed elements of the house still stood, though everything had the heavy scent of damp rot. He supposed that must have been from the rain and the wet wood.

He kicked at a support beam that had fallen to the ground at some point. “This has to be a safety hazard to any dumb teenagers wandering out in the woods.”

He glanced up at Derek and saw the exasperated expression on his face. He grinned sheepishly, “I mean, dumb teenagers other than me, obviously.”

Derek ignored him and scented the house, then paused. He took a few steps further into the house and scented it again. He said, “I think someone has been sleeping here.”

“What?” Stiles asked, looking around at the dirt.

The earlier hesitation now gone, Derek moved freely throughout the house. He walked over to the corner of what must have been the living room, where a thicker pile of leaves were spread out. Derek crouched down and reached out to touch them. “They’re gone now.”

Stiles waited for Derek to say more, but the werewolf kept quiet. “Well?” he asked. “Are they coming back?”

“I don’t know,” Derek said. “I don’t think they’ve been here in a few days. Wherever the howling was coming from tonight, it wasn’t around here.”

Derek got up and kept investigating. He uncovered the remains of some rabbits that had clearly been somebody’s dinner. He disappeared from Stiles’ line of sight for a few minutes, leaving Stiles to fend for himself as he stared at the bed of leaves and wondered just what type of creature had been living there.

When Derek rounded the corner and walked back in the room, Stiles asked the question that had been on his mind all night. “Do you think it’s Peter?”

He shook his head, “I don’t think so. It doesn’t smell like him in here. It smells...rotten.”

“I thought that was just, y’know, the house,” Stiles said.

Derek looked over at him, his eyebrows furrowed as he tried to put his thoughts into words. Finally, he simply said, “No. It smells like decay in here.”

With that harrowing explanation, Stiles had no trouble leaving the place when Derek signaled they should. Standing out in front of the house, where Stiles remembered throwing Molotov cocktails at Peter and watching Derek slash his throat, he asked, “What direction should we head in next?”

Derek said, “I think we both know where we have to go next.”

Stiles sighed, nodded his head, and without prompting, wrapped his fingers around Derek’s wrist as they started walking again.

It didn’t take them long to find their way to the Nemeton, even in the dark. With Derek’s werewolf senses, and Stiles’ connection, it was as if they were guided there on the quickest route possible. As though a trail of breadcrumbs had illuminated the path along the forest floor. They barely made it a few steps into the clearing before they came to a dead stop.

“That can’t be good,” Stiles whispered, horror clutching at his throat, his hand tightening around Derek’s wrist who stood dead quiet beside him.

In front of them, at the base of the Nemeton, lay three dead bucks, their throats freshly slashed and the wet, slick blood soaking into the dirt beneath them all.

***

They stayed in the woods searching for at least another hour before they finally gave up and went back home. The ride back was silent, neither of them willing or able to force a conversation. He parked his Jeep next to Dad’s cruiser and followed Derek into the house and up the stairs. They both came to a stop at the top landing, less than a foot apart from each other and away from their bedrooms.

Derek shoved his hands into his jean pockets, the stain for whatever reason standing out prominently in the darkened hallway. He shrugged his broad shoulders, let them settle back into a slump, and said, “Get some sleep.”

Stiles gnawed on his bottom lip, his fingers clenching and unclenching as he watched Derek move to walk away. He asked, his voice barely above a whisper for fear of waking up Dad, “Are you scared?”

Derek paused and looked up. He caught Stiles’ gaze, and for a ridiculous minute Stiles remembered the night in tenth grade when he and Derek were stuck in that pool for hours. Afterwards, when he had resigned himself to drowning from exhaustion, and Scott had shown up and saved them like the hero he was, they had all stood outside of the gym. Derek and Scott and Stiles and Erica, her blonde hair a stark contrast to the inky blackness of the night and the terror that they had faced. Derek had looked at him the same way he was looking at him now. Like Stiles had spoken a truth that Derek didn’t think anyone would ever voice.

Kanima’s were an abomination, werewolves were not, and he wanted to know if Derek was scared because Stiles didn’t want to feel so alone in his own fear.

Derek nodded.

He stopped worrying his bottom lip with this teeth and ran his tongue over the bruised flesh. He took a shuddering breath and asked, not entirely sure where the courage came from, “Could you...I mean, would you mind...sleeping in my room? Just for tonight.”

Rather than respond, Derek turned away and walked into his own room, closing the door behind him. Stiles had a moment to feel let down before the door was opening again, and Derek was walking out with his arms full of pillows and a blanket. If he had taken any time at all to hesitate or question Stiles’ request in that room, Stiles didn’t know. What mattered was that he didn’t hesitate now as he led them both through Stiles’ bedroom door and began setting up a makeshift sleeping bag on the floor.

They got ready for bed in silence; Stiles turned away to face the window as he slipped out of his clothes and pulled on the pajamas he’d been asleep in only hours earlier. He shuffled into his bed and saw that Derek was already on the floor with the blankets pulled up. He saw the henley and wondered if Derek had bothered to change out of his jeans. He wish he had.

They stared at each other in the dark, and Derek said, “It’s okay. I’ll be here in the morning.” And Stiles believed him.

Stiles closed his eyes and rubbed his face against his favorite pillow. He settled into an uneasy sleep, slipping between awake and dreaming so seamlessly he didn’t even notice. He didn’t wake up to tell Derek that he could still feel a pull tugging at his chest leading all the back to that bloody clearing. He didn’t mention that with his eyes closed all he could see was the roots of the Nemeton growing denser, tightening their hold on his limbs.

He sensed that something was so very wrong, and that the Nemeton was displeased. Those bucks had enraged it, made it angry. Deep in the pit of his stomach, in the dead of his sleep, Stiles knew that if he returned to the Nemeton that night, the Nemeton would ask for something that Stiles couldn’t give.

He rolled over in his bed, dreaming of the roots, and wished that there were arms wrapped around him instead.

***

“So, why are we here?” Isaac asked from the floor where he was sprawled out on his back. Allison sat cross legged beside him, her fingers running softly through his curls. Scott watched them with a soft expression on his face from where he stood. “I thought we weren’t having another pack meeting until next week.”

Lydia had settled herself into the corner of the couch. She’d slipped her high heels off and delicately curled her legs underneath her. Ethan and Aiden were sitting beside her, both bleary eyed. She added, “It’s barely 7AM and you don’t have a latte for me. What couldn’t wait for coffee?”

Stiles glanced to his side where Derek was standing. When they’d woken up that morning, it had been clear to them that it was time to bring everything to the pack—even if neither of them were clear of their own standing within it.

“It’s like this,” Stiles began. And that’s how it went: the next fifteen or so minutes were spent with everyone listening as Stiles and Derek traded off explaining what had been happening. Derek feeling the urge to return, the dead buck at the base of the Nemeton, and Peter and all the stories of murdered Alphas. They even explained going to Deaton for research, though Stiles had asked Derek to keep the trainings unmentioned.  As they neared the end of their recap, they finally talked about what had happened last night. For Stiles, the rotting scent of the Hale house still hung in the air, as did the image of the blood soaked earth.

By the end of the story, Derek was no longer standing. At some point he had leaned against the wall and slid down to the floor. His back ramrod straight, he stared up at the ceiling fan instead of making eye contact with anyone in the room. Stiles wondered what he was thinking, when Derek said, “We don’t know what was in the Preserve last night, but something’s been living out there.”

There was silence, and then from across the room with his arms folded across his chest, Scott asked, “Why am I just hearing about this now?”

Stiles’ jaw dropped. “You’re not. I told you all about the buck and the Nemeton a few weeks ago.”

“Not about Peter,” Scott said, his hands falling to his side. He looked between Stiles and Derek, before glancing to Allison and Isaac for support. “Or about the murders! That’s serious. Have you told your dad?”

Derek answered for him, “Of course we’ve told the Sheriff. Stiles doesn’t keep secrets from his dad.”

From where she sat, Allison asked, “Has he mentioned any animal attacks, or reasons to be concerned? My dad and I have heard rumblings about the killings, but there hasn’t been any reason to suggest that whoever is doing it would come to Beacon Hills.”

Scott turned to her, shocked. “You knew about the murders?”

“We’re hunters,” she said matter-of-factly, not bothering to coddle anybody in the room. Stiles was impressed with her frankness. “We’ve been keeping track and the closest this whole situation has come to us was La Pine. There haven’t even been any killings in the past three months. I think Peter’s intel is a little out of date.”

Instead of letting Scott react further, Stiles said, “My dad hasn’t heard anything either. But that doesn’t mean there’s no reason to worry. _Especially_ after what happened last night.”

“What happened last night?” Aiden asked, looking up from where he’d been playing with his phone.

Derek dropped his head back and let it hit the wall. He said, his voice weary and every hour of missed sleep from the night before obvious in the roughness of his words, “The dead bucks at the Nemeton, and the scent at my old house. Pay attention.”

Aiden put down his phone and glared at Derek. They would never get along, which Stiles would never fault Derek for. Aiden and Ethan had restrained him, forced his claws out, and aided Kali in murdering Boyd. How Derek didn’t rip them limb from limb the moment they were in the same room together never failed to surprise him.

“I am paying attention,” Aiden said, a sneer pulling at his lips. “You found some dead deer. You heard a little howling. Your burnt house smelled bad. None of these are cause for concern. There are fucked up humans around the world who like to hunt animals for sport, and there are plenty of werewolves in this town who like to howl. And your house sucks.”

Ethan shrugged, “He’s got a point.”

Stiles dropped his hand to Derek’s shoulder. He looked at Aiden before directing his attention towards Scott. “It’s more than that and you know it. You and Allison both should. Or are you telling me you haven’t felt anything from the Nemeton this past month?”

His gaze flickered between the two of them, waiting for some flutter of acknowledgement to flash across their faces. Only nothing happened. They both stared back at him, confused.

“No, Stiles,” Allison said slowly, as though approaching a startled fawn. Isaac stared up at her from where he lay. “I haven’t felt anything. Are you saying you have?”

He tore his gaze away from them and stared down at his sock clad feet. He hadn’t bothered to put on shoes after they’d invited everyone over. He was still staring at the ground when he felt a hand curl around his calf, and glanced to his side to see Derek looking up at him.

It would be impossible to explain to anyone else, but Stiles knew in that moment that this was a waste. Of time, of energy, of emotions. They’d shared what they needed to and that was what mattered. If the other’s didn’t believe them, who cared. Derek and Stiles had been the only ones out searching the Preserve the night before, they could do it again.

He raised his chin and gazed out over the pack. He lied, “No, I haven’t.”

After that it didn’t take long for everyone to convince themselves that Derek and Stiles had overreacted over nothing. Allison promised to update Chris and keep everyone informed if the Argent clan heard anything worth mentioning. Aiden and Ethan left quickly, both grumbling that they were headed back to bed—Aiden didn’t even wait to say goodbye to Lydia, choosing instead to swiftly drop a kiss to her cheek before fleeing out the back door. Isaac stood up, stretched, scratched his belly, and wondered aloud what he was going to have for breakfast.

Scott still looked dubious. He crossed the room to stand beside Stiles and said, “Dude, you can tell me anything. You know that, right?”

Stiles forced a smile on his face and wrapped his arm around Scott’s shoulders. “Of course, bro.”

“The next time you hear howling in the Preserve, you call me, okay?” Scott said. “I’ll go with you no matter what. You don’t have to go alone with Derek.”

The sentiment was there and it was clear that Scott was earnest; for a moment all Stiles wanted was to break down and tell him everything. Every last dream and nightmare and vision, but something held him back. A dark voice in the back of his head that didn’t belong to him, that whispered that Scott couldn’t understand, not if he wasn’t feeling the unease like Stiles was. So he kept silent, held his fist out, and fist bumped his best friend instead of sharing his secrets.

When everyone had finally left, Stiles turned back to look at Derek. Stiles shrugged his shoulders, unsure how else to react to what had just happened.

“In the future,” a clear voice rang out in the silence that hung between them. “I want to be included in your plans.”

Stiles spun around and found Lydia. Still primly poised on the corner of the couch, her expression bright. She pressed her lips together, and added, “Also, remember to provide a latte. Or a cappuccino. I’m honestly not picky.”

“Um,” Stiles said. He glanced at Derek who looked just as surprised. “Okay?”

She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear and smiled. “Good. Now, tell me the whole story again, and this time include everything.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First, so sorry for the delay! I wound up having to scrap a lot of this chapter last minute and do some re-writes because it wasn't working out right. Second, I have officially caught up with my pre-written chapters. I have everything meticulously outlined and I'm working on this fic whenever I've got a spare moment. I'm going to aim to keep hitting my weekend post dates but bear with me if I'm not always perfect. Thanks for reading and let me know your thoughts on the chapter!


	9. Chapter 9

The problem with how everything had unfolded at the last minute pack meeting was this: Scott wasn’t a part of the solution. And Stiles didn’t know how to feel about that.

Derek and Lydia believed him and understood that there was cause for concern in Beacon Hills. Lydia had listened to them recap everything that had happened—everything—and at the end of it all declared that she would immediately begin researching the murders of the other Alphas along the west coast. She made lists and assigned duties and sent daily, sometimes hourly, updates to both Stiles and Derek to make sure that everyone was sticking to their tasks.

Which they were. Diligently, actually. Derek had started patrolling the territory as much as possible, waking up in the middle of night to go out and check the boundaries. Stiles had taken to visiting the Nemeton every other day, in the hopes that he might glean more information from the tree stump (and yet, at the same time, he didn’t deny that he felt immense relief every time he came home with nothing new to add).

It wasn’t perfect; three weeks had gone by and still, none of them knew exactly what they were looking for, but it was better than ignoring what was going on. And if Allison and the others weren’t willing to contribute, that was on them. Stiles had tried his hardest to make them understand.

But Scott was different—Scott was his best friend. They had been through everything together, stuck by each other’s side since kindergarten, and Stiles felt awful. Like he was betraying Scott somehow by working with Derek and confiding in him and leaning on him when he needed support. That was supposed to be Scott’s job, and Stiles felt like he was almost...denying him that opportunity.

Which is what he was thinking about the next day at school, in between Economics and History, when he caught up to Scott in the hallway.

“Hey man,” he said, reaching out to wrap his arm around Scott’s broad shoulders. He grinned at his friend and fell into step with him, their legs moving in tandem as they walked towards their next class. “What are you up to after school?”

The question was a little unfair: Stiles already knew the answer after begging Deaton profusely to do him a favor. 

Scott glanced up at him, his brown eyes wide like a startled fawn, before a smile split across his lips. “Dude! I don’t have any plans, actually. Deaton texted earlier to say it was a slow day and that he’d swapped my shift for later in the week when he’d need me more. So I’m totally free! Why?”

“How about some one-on-one _Call of Duty_? At your place, since Derek is at mine.”

The look of excitement that spread across Scott’s face was genuine. He looked every bit the eager puppy Stiles always teased him about being. “Heck yeah!”

Relief swept over Stiles at Scott’s answer. They hadn’t had any time together in ages—there was always something or someone else in the way. It wasn’t Isaac’s fault but once he’d moved in with the McCall’s, it was hard to get Scott alone. Stiles did his best never to resent Isaac’s presence but he failed more often than not. Which was genuinely shitty of him, all around. He knew that. He did.

Sometimes, it was just hard to _know_ about himself.

Just to be sure, he double checked, letting a little bit of the truth slip out, “Just us, right? I need some Scott-and-Stiles time, dude, it’s been a while.”

“Yeah, of course,” Scott answered breezily. He hitched his backpack higher up his shoulder and shrugged, “Isaac has tutoring with Coach for Econ, so I’m all yours.”

Any other time, an answer like that might have made Stiles feel like second choice. But not today—today he was a grown up, so he took it with a smile and forced the feelings of inadequacies down and ignored them. The healthy way.

He clapped his hand on Scott’s back and said, “Awesome. It’s a date.”

*** 

Melissa was headed out the door, her purse strap dangling precariously from her shoulder with her arms full of everything she would need for the day, as Stiles threw the Jeep into park. He leaned out the open window and gave an exaggerated wave. He gave her a goofy grin and for a split moment it felt like nothing had changed. Like he had been showing up at their house every afternoon for past year like clockwork, instead of the truth. Which was that Stiles couldn’t remember the last time he’d actually seen Melissa. A month ago? Two?

“Stiles!” she called out, her expression overjoyed for a brief second before she lost hold of everything she’d been juggling. Her brown bagged lunch and travel mug went tumbling down atop her purse and all the files she’d been carrying. The only thing she was left holding was the lanyard to her hospital ID badge. Melissa dropped down to try and gather it all up. “Crap!”

He scrambled out of his car and raced up the driveway to crouch beside her. “Here,” he said. “Let me help you.”

She flashed him a brittle smile as she tried to scoop up all the papers into one messy pile. After a moment she settled back on her heels and sighed, dragging her hand down her face. “God, I’m a mess. Running late as per usual. I bet you’ve missed this, huh?”

“Oh, if you even knew,” he said. Stiles ignored the ache and instead let out a small laugh. He picked up what he could and then reached out to touch her elbow and guided her to stand. He walked with her to her beat up old car and deposited everything into the passenger seat.

He waited for her to get buckled in. She rolled down the window and gave him a fond smile, a softness to her features he’d grown up memorizing. “Next time I don’t have the evening shift, stay for dinner. I would love to hear about all of your college plans and I’m sure Scott and Isaac wouldn’t mind another boy at the table. I’m officially outnumbered!”

“Course,” he promised, as he tried to disguise his own surprise at the realization that she didn’t know his plans already. He tried not to lean into it when she reached out to pat his hand before pulling out of the driveway. It was hard—he hadn’t grasped how much he’d missed her or that it had even been long enough to miss her in the first place.

He was still struggling to wrap his brain around it as he walked up to the front door and hesitated for a moment, unsure if he could just walk through the door without knocking like he used to.

God, had it really been so long? There used to be a time when this house felt like a second home to him. But whose fault was it really that he now felt like a stranger?

Thankfully, he didn’t have to think too hard on it. Scott rescued him, like he always had, swinging open the door and pulling him in. “I saw you helping my mom—c’mon, let’s play!”

It didn’t take long before all of his concerns seemed to float out the window. What was the point? Spread out on floor pillows next to his best friend, Stiles couldn’t remember why he’d felt nervous about making these plans. There was an ease to spending time with Scott—a familiarity that Stiles didn’t have with anyone else in the world. When Scott went to get himself a soda, he came back with three cans instead of one: because Stiles always drank his twice as fast and needed a second before Scott was barely halfway through his first. They pressed their shoulders together, faux-wrestled to force the other player to fuck up in the game, and laughed loudly, freely, when either of them succeeded.

Just like old times.

They’d been at it for half an hour when someone finally broached a topic other than the game at hand. Surprisingly, it was Scott who made the first move.

“How’s it going with Derek staying at your place?” he asked.

The question surprises him for a moment, and then it doesn’t. They hadn’t really talked about Derek staying at Stiles’ in weeks. Scott had asked for the favor and Stiles had acquiesced like everyone knew he would. He shrugged, and said, “It’s not bad actually.”

“What does that mean?” Scott asked, turning away from the game to stare at Stiles’ face.

Sitles pressed his lips together and tried to keep his smile at bay. He said, “I dunno, we’re...friends, sort of. Sharing a bathroom will do that, I guess.”

“Not entirely true,” replied Scott quickly, returning to the game and shooting at something. “Or all those reality tv shows where strangers are forced to be roommates would be nothing but sunshine and happiness.”

Stiles dipped his head back and barked out a laugh. “Okay, you got me. But we’re getting along, honest. I think he and my dad are even friends—despite the fact that Derek has taken up my crusade of making sure Dad eats better. Though Derek is definitely a little more lenient than me when it comes to cheat foods.”

He smirked thinking back on earlier that morning when Stiles had run into the kitchen to grab some cinnamon Pop-Tarts only to find Derek and Dad sitting at the kitchen table eating egg white mushroom and spinach omelettes with a side of turkey bacon. When Stiles had come to a sudden stop at the doorway, shock etched across his face, Derek had pointed towards the stove top where a third plate was waiting to be filled. Just for him.

“Just be careful, okay?” Scott said, interrupting his thoughts.

“Be careful?” he asked, flummoxed. He didn’t mean to, but he dropped the controller into his lap and glanced at his best friend. “Of what? Healthy food?”

Scott’s face flushed and he looked a little sheepish as he explained, “I know you have a habit of crushing on the emotionally unavailable, beautiful people. I just don’t want you to get hurt, okay?” 

Warmth blossomed in his chest as he stared, wide-eyed, at his best friend. From anyone else a comment like that might have come across like an insult, but from Scott it was different. It made Stiles feel so fucking appreciated in that moment. Like he was truly known and cared for. For a moment his vision blurred because of honest to God tears that he quickly wiped away.  

“Yeah,” he said, his voice strangled. He cleared his throat and turned back to the game, picking up the controller again. “Yeah, I’ll be careful, man. Promise.”

***

An hour later, they’d stopped playing video games and had ordered two pizzas. Scott was sitting on the couch, his legs crossed under him as he ate two huge slices at once, while Stiles was spread out on the floor still holding his half eaten fifth slice. The room was filled with their comfortable laughter and conversation. Two best friends shooting the shit and stuffing their faces just like normal high school kids who didn’t have to worry about sacrificed deer and murdered Alphas and magical trees.

“What are your plans after graduation?” Stiles asked, having wondered what the answer to that question was for months. They hadn’t talked about any of their plans for the summer.

Scott swallowed the bite he’d been chewing and shrugged. “No plans. Probably pick up some more shifts at Deaton’s. What about you?”

 _Hopefully not too many shifts_ , Stiles thought. He still needed Deaton to have some privacy to carry on his lessons, after all.

“Honestly, I was thinking of maybe taking a road trip?” Stiles answered, the inflection of his voice raising with each word. “Maybe like, to the Grand Canyon or New Orleans or whatever. You know, see something different. Be free for a while.”

There was a lull after he spoke, but for the first time in so long Stiles didn’t feel uneased by it.

“Dude.” Scott leaned forward, all serious, before revealing a wide grin. “That. Sounds. Awesome. Let’s do it!”

His own lips widened into a smile, his chest warm, he asked, “Yeah? You’d share the driving with me?”

“Of course!” Scott said. “Let’s plan it. Maybe we should try and go through Las Vegas?”

Stiles let out a laugh and sat up, pulling out his phone from his pocket to start searching for some road trip recommendations, when they both heard the front door open. He lifted his head to follow the sound and saw Isaac dropping his backpack to the floor before crossing over to the couch and collapsing beside Scott.

“Remind me to never take Economics in college,” Isaac mumbled, leaning across Scott to grab a slice of pizza.

Scott chuckled at Isaac’s words and reached out to ruffle his hair. He flashed Stiles a look that almost seemed regretful. As though he’d been having fun with just the two of them, and Isaac had ruined that but there was nothing he could do.

Stiles understood. He appreciated the sentiment all the same.

In that same vein, he did his best not to appear disappointed at the intrusion. It wasn’t really an intrusion, after all—this was Isaac’s home, and Stiles was just a visitor. But maybe now was the time to try and change things: the three of them together could pave a new path forward.

“You want to play me in _Call of Duty_?” Stiles offered, holding out the controller. “I’ve already creamed Scotty and honestly, I’d like some real competition.”

“Hey!” Scott exclaimed, affronted. 

Isaac laughed around the mouthful of pizza, but shook his head politely. “No thanks, I’m not really a fan.”

“Oh,” Stiles said simply, trying to cover for his letdown.

Scott looked between the two of them, and eagerly tried to fix the problem, “We could play something else? Isaac likes _Mario Kart_ and we can take turns. Maybe next time you can bring your controller and all three of us can play?”

Isaac beamed up at Scott, affection obvious on his face. And Scott looked back at him and it, fuck, it almost hurt to see. It was so clear that they cared about each other. And it was also clear to Stiles that Scott was making a genuine effort to act as the mediator. He flashed his friend a smile and nodded. “Sure man. Get out the game and let’s play.”

That’s how the rest of the afternoon went: Scott doing his best to divide his attentions between the two of them equally, but often getting distracted by Isaac. Which was fair: Scott was a man with a crush and Isaac was (one of) the object(s) of his affection. 

“Do you mind if Isaac tries again?” Scott asked, glancing over his shoulder at Stiles where he had been sitting on the couch for the past twenty minutes watching the two of them play against each other. “I know we said loser forfeits to the next player but he got screwed over by that banana peel.”

Isaac looked startled. He glanced back at Stiles for a split second before focusing on Scott. “No, Scott, that’s dumb. It’s Stiles’ turn.”

“No, no,” Scott said earnestly. “Look, you go again and Stiles can take my turn.”

It was obvious that it would continue like this forever if Stiles didn’t do something to stop them. He pretended to open a text on his phone and stood up. He said, “Looks like there are no next turns for me. My dad just texted and he wants me to go home for dinner.”

“But you just had pizza?” Scott asked, gesturing towards the remnants of the pizza boxes.

Stiles forced a laugh. “As if this will be the first time I’ve ever had a second dinner. You should know by now that I’m practically a Hobbit.”

“Can’t you stay for a little while longer?” Isaac asked, glancing between the two of them from where he sat on the floor. Stiles welcomed the effort.

He shook his head, and started heading towards the door. “Nah. My dad is waiting for me at home and if I don’t get there he might make himself a Reuben or some other disgustingly unhealthy meal.”

“I thought you said Derek was helping with that?” Scott asked.  

Quick on his feet, Stiles replied, “I don’t think Derek’s home. Anyway. This was fun. I’ll see you two at school tomorrow.”

He slipped out the front door before either of them could try and stop him again.

The drive home was weird.

He couldn’t explain it but he felt...muddled. The afternoon had gone so great—better than he could have hoped when he first asked if Scott had wanted to hang out. He had thought, at best, he’d be forced to sit around and listen to Scott and Isaac talking about Allison for several hours. At best, maybe Melissa would have been home to distract him with questions about colleges. But he’d gotten lucky; nobody was home but the two of them and it had felt so completely normal. He couldn’t remember the last time he and Scott had hung out alone, without any supernatural business getting in the way.

And then Isaac came home and suddenly it was like everything went downhill from there. Only that wasn’t fair, was it? How was it anyone else’s problem that Stiles felt hurt by the turn of events? Didn’t that make him a jerk? Or too needy? It wasn’t fair of him to expect Scott to focus all of his attention on Stiles. It was stupid, really, and mean-spirited.

Which only made Stiles feel worse, which circled back to the fact that he shouldn’t feel bad at all after such a good afternoon. It was illogical. It was senseless. Yet knowing and feeling something was entirely different, and knowing didn’t stop him from feeling so completely isolated.

He kept thinking about it in circles until he finally got home. The driveway was empty, since Dad was pulling a double shift that evening. As he was walking through the front door he bumped into Derek on his way out to do his usual evening patrol. They exchanged pleasantries, and then Stiles was alone.

As per usual.

***

The next day at school, Stiles couldn’t find it in him to eat lunch with the pack. Things had been strained enough as it was after that last pack meeting, and then the weirdness of last night left him feeling off kilter. He stood at the front of the cafeteria with his tray of public school food, wondering where he was going to sit. A year or so ago he might have sat with Boyd. The thought made his heart clench.  

He could see Allison out of the corner of his eye trying to get his attention, but he purposefully pretended not to see her.

Finally, his gaze settled on Danny, sitting alone and away from the lacrosse team, and he wandered over to his table. “Mind if I sit here?”

Danny looked up at him and gave an easy smile before biting into his apple. He shrugged and gestured towards the open seats.

They’d been sitting together talking about nothing of importance for a few minutes, when suddenly another tray settled beside Stiles’. He looked to his right and found Lydia settling onto the stool beside him. Hovering behind her were Aiden and Ethan, swooping in to give Danny a kiss on the cheek.

When Aiden made a move to put down his tray, Lydia waved him off. She didn’t even bother to glance at him as she said, “Don’t bother, we’re going to be talking about advanced trigonometry and you’ll get bored.”

“But—” Aiden tried to retort.

“Seriously. I don’t want to spend the next half hour dealing with your sighs of boredom and answering stupid questions. Go sit with everyone else, we’ll entertain ourselves.”

Aiden stared at her, dumbfounded, but Lydia made no move to apologize. Instead, she leaned forward and started sharing a trig theory she’d been researching in her spare time. After a moment, Aiden finally gave a huff of derision and left to head towards where the pack was sitting. Ethan flashed Danny an apologetic look and quickly followed after his twin.

Lydia stopped talking about math shortly after they'd stepped away and instead asked Danny, “Have you talked to Jackson lately? Last we spoke he said you two were having a hard time matching up your schedules.”

Stiles and Danny shared a bewildered look, before Danny replied, “Oh yeah, we figured it out. He’s started staying up later than normal so we can talk after I get home from lacrosse practice.”

“That time difference must be a bitch,” Stiles said. “What is it? Seven hours?”

“Eight,” Lydia and Danny corrected simultaneously.

They laughed, and then Danny asked, “When was the last time you talked to him?”

“Oh, a few days ago. I had to give him an update on what’s going on in Beacon Hills, obviously. And he wanted to tell me about how his plans for spring break are going. It sounds like his parents are taking him skiing in Austria.” Lydia used her fork to push at the pile of steamed vegetables on her tray, not making eye contact with either of them.

Jackson hadn’t been back to Beacon Hills since his parents had moved their whole family across the globe. From what Stiles understood, Jackson hadn’t been allowed to visit because of their fears; which was fair: it wasn’t often your teenage son died in front of you on a lacrosse field only to pull a Lazarus and rise from the dead a few hours later.

Picking up on something Lydia had said, Stiles asked, “Did you update him on _all_ of it? Derek and the deer and y’know. All of it?”

She raised her chin and met his gaze evenly. “Obviously. I tell Jackson everything.”

They were still staring at each other when Danny finally asked, “Am I missing something here?”

Stiles turned to Danny and raised his eyebrows, trying to stumble over a response that didn’t sound obviously untrue. “No, nothing big, just y’know, me crushing on Derek which Lydia knows—”

“If you come over to Stiles’ house after school, I promise to tell you,” Lydia said instead, biting a green bean in half delicately.

Danny thought for a moment, and then shrugged nonchalantly. “Okay, sounds good.”

“Wait, what?” Stiles reacted, whipping around to gawk at Lydia.

***

“Does Danny even remember where I live?” Stiles wondered out loud as he played with the reclining feature of Dad’s chair.

Lydia looked up from his class notes that was comparing against her own. “I sent him a text with the address about ten minutes ago. He should be here soon.”

A few minutes later, they heard the door knob turning. Both of them looked towards the entryway only to see Derek walk through the door. He stopped when he caught sight of Lydia on the couch, his eyes quickly scanning the room before they landed on Stiles in the recliner. He closed the door behind him and nodded to them both. “Afternoon.”

Stiles gave Derek a small smile before he asked, “Should we tell Scott what we’re doing?”

“I don’t see why we should,” Lydia said, closing the notebook and slipping it into her purse. He almost asked for his notes back but thought better of it. She’d probably get more use out of them than he would these days. “We never came to an agreement _not_ to tell Danny about werewolves, so it shouldn’t bother him if we take that next step without him.”

Stiles looked over Lydia’s strawberry blonde head to Derek for a response but found the older werewolf staring at him instead. He turned back to Lydia. “That doesn’t seem exactly fair. You were the one who said we should leave him out of it, and I think Scott trusted you on that. What made you change your mind?”

She held her hand out in front of her to check her manicure and replied efficiently, “Scott isn’t taking the threats against Beacon Hills and the pack seriously enough. We need all the help we can get if we’re the only ones who are going to be doing anything about it.”

She gestured to the three of them, and then pulled out a nail file.

“Scott has a lot on his plate with work and college applications and everything. If Allison and her dad are keeping him up to date and he thinks that’s enough, and we’re looking into it, that should be enough,” Stiles defended, thinking back on the afternoon they’d shared the day before. “It’s not like this type of thing has ever been Scott’s strong suit.”

Lydia didn’t even need to respond. Derek did it for her. “You don’t really believe that.”

“Look,” Lydia said. “If you want to tell Scott what we’re doing, we can. But it’s up to you. I think Derek and I are both in agreement that it would be a waste of time and energy.”

She glanced at Derek and he nodded in response.

Stiles thought about it. He looked down at the phone in his hand and imagined pulling up Scott’s contact information, making the call, and telling him that they were about to tell Danny the truth. He imagined Scott saying he wanted to be there with them when it happened, and then imagined him showing up with Allison and Isaac in tow, maybe with Aiden and Ethan not far behind. He could picture Danny walking into the house to a room full of people he wasn’t expecting, could see how it would get out of hand fast if Danny didn’t believe them or if Ethan got upset at them for moving forward without him.

And then he pictured Lydia and him trying to explain what else was happening: the danger that they believed was facing everyone; and he knew, instantly, that Allison and Scott and everyone would dismiss their concerns again. Knock it to the side and tell Danny they were over-exaggerating and there was nothing to be worried about. He knew Danny would want to hear them out, that he would want to listen, but Stiles also knew how charming Scott could be. How Ethan would claim that they weren’t werewolves and didn’t have the same senses. That anything Derek said was suspect because he was damaged.

It would only take a few seconds before Derek would lash out, before he would accuse them of murdering Erica and Boyd, which would make Aiden and Ethan defensive. Then maybe Isaac would get pulled in, and Scott would have to pick a side. Allison might call her dad, until everything had spiraled out of control so fast and so violently that there was nothing Stiles or Lydia could do to stop it.

He shook his head. “No, you’re right. Let’s go ahead as planned.”

As if on cue, Danny walked through the door.

He saw Derek first, since he was seated closest to the door. Surprised, Danny said, “Oh, woah. Hey. You’re Not-Miguel-Derek.”

“Just Derek is fine,” he said, as he stood up and held out a hand for Danny to shake.

Danny shook it and afterwards walked past Derek to join Lydia on the couch. When his back was towards Derek, he looked to Stiles and mouthed the words, _Oh my God_. Stiles covered his mouth to hold back a giggle.

He settled into his spot next to Lydia and said nothing when Derek sat down on the other side of him. After a moment or two of silence, Danny finally asked, “So, what did you two want to tell me?”

Unsure of how to start, Stiles did what he did best.

He rambled.

“You know the story of Little Red Riding Hood where there’s a big bad wolf and a woodsman rescues her? What if the wolf isn’t always bad? And what if the woodsman isn’t always the hero?” Stiles said, not entirely sure where his words were going to take him. “Just an FYI, the Grimm’s brothers version of this story is very fucked up. But my point is, that story is a little biased, you get me? Statistically the number of wolf attacks in the United States compared to the number of wolves in the country is astronomically small. In the past quarter-century, dogs have killed over three hundred people. Do you know how many wolves have killed? C’mon, guess.”

Danny glanced around the room, confused. He shrugged his shoulders and offered, “I don’t know. Fifty?”

Stiles made a sound like that of a game show buzzer. “Wrong—the correct answer is two. So, the fact of the matter is, wolves aren’t always bad. Did you ever read _The True Story of the Three Little Pigs_ as a kid? I used to love that book. It’s about how the wolf just wanted to borrow sugar to bake a cake for Granny, but because of all the prejudicial bias against wolves, the pigs were terrified of him and he was thrown in jail for crimes he never committed. That’s what we’re talking about here, okay, the system is rigged—”

Lydia interrupted, “Werewolves are real.” 

Immediately, everyone fell deathly quiet. When Stiles looked over at Derek, he saw the other man was literally holding his breath. He looked posed to bolt if need be.

Just as suddenly, Danny burst out with a dozen excited questions. “Are you two werewolves? Is Derek? He looks like a werewolf, if I’m being honest. Wait, is Scott a werewolf? Is that how he suddenly became so good at lacrosse in sophomore year? What about Jackson? Is that why he died or why he lived? Or both? I mean, I knew some of it because Beacon Hills is a literal hellhole, but basically everyone in this town knows some of it. I want to know _everything_. What do you all know?”

He looked ready to ask another hundred questions at a mile a minute, but Lydia held up her hand to stop him.

“We promise to answer all of your questions, if you do us a favor,” she explained. Pulling up her phone she swiped open a contact and held the screen out for everyone to see. A familiar face cooly gazed out from behind the backlit glass. “We want you to track Peter Hale’s phone—specifically to backtrack what you can and tell us where he’s been for the past few months. While you do that, we’ll answer anything you want.”

Stiles, who hadn’t realized this was what Lydia wanted, spoke up, “To give you a start, yes, Derek is a werewolf. So is his uncle. But they’re born werewolves, while Jackson and Scott were bitten in tenth grade.”  

Danny gawked at them. Then, without a moment’s hesitation, he pulled out his laptop from his backpack and flipped it open.

“Give me that phone number and start telling me more.”

They all settled in for the long haul, ready to finally let Danny in on everything he’d missed out on in the past few years.

***

“...so yeah, that’s why Ms. Blake up and disappeared.”

“Damn,” Danny muttered under his breath as he kept typing, until finally, hours after this had started, his fingers seemed to slow down. “Okay, I think I have what you wanted to know.”

Lydia and Stiles leaned forward, while Derek kept his distance.

Danny started rattling off coordinates while Stiles, on his own laptop, started inputting them into a map to see what turned up.

“Wait,” he said, staring at the screen in front of him. “That can’t be right. How far back are you going? We wanted some data from the past year.”

Danny shrugged. “I can’t help you there. From what I can tell his phone was turned off until about five months ago. And even then, he seems to turn it off for days and weeks at a time; or at the very least, he falls off the grid and I can’t track him. But when it’s on and I can, these are the places he goes.”

“Why doesn’t it seem right?” Derek asked, finally intrigued enough to get pulled into the technical conversation.

Stiles looked up to stare at Derek, baffled. “All of these coordinates are in Beacon Hills. But I thought he said he’d been called back to town around the same time as you?”

Lydia pinched the bridge of her nose and closed her eyes. “Well, now we have a new question to answer: what has Peter been doing in town all this time without any of us noticing?”

***

Thirty minutes later, Stiles and Derek were standing at the front door waving goodbye to Danny and Lydia. It was pitch black outside, at some point the day having fallen quietly into night without any of them noticing. Utterly exhausted, Stiles stumbled over to the couch and let himself fall gracelessly face first onto the couch cushions.

From somewhere above him, Derek asked, “Do you think Scott will be angry?”

“I don’t know what Scott will think,” Stiles admitted more easily than he would have if he weren’t so drained. It was supposed to be his job to know Scott—to understand him. How was he supposed to be a good emissary if he couldn’t predict his reactions?

There was silence, and then a few seconds later he felt hands on his calves as they easily lifted his legs, before settling them down onto a lap. Derek let his fingers stay where they were, curled around his jeans-encased legs. Stiles shivered where he lay.

If you were to ask him where the next question came from, Stiles would blame the exhaustion and claim delirium. But in the moment, he didn’t stop himself.

“Are you an Omega?”

He kept his eyes forced shut, his face buried in the cushions. He could feel, rather than see, Derek’s hands clenching and unclenching around his calves. Stiles brought his arms up to curl protectively around his head, not entirely certain how Derek would react.

Instead of violence or anger, Derek spoke slowly, his words carefully measured, “After Cora and I split ways, I started feeling...detached. Like everything that had once tethered me to my pack and this world was gone. I did a good job of ignoring it, forcing myself to stay human, and avoiding shifting, but I was...isolated. Talking to Cora on the phone helped, reminded me that I had a connection to her. But it wasn’t constant. That’s why I was so spooked when I felt unsettled in New Orleans. I told you I thought I’d crossed into a pack’s territory but the truth was I had no idea what it was. Because I hadn’t felt any sort of connection to anything in so long.”

Stiles forced himself to stay quiet, unsure that Derek would keep talking if he spoke up.

“Since coming back to Beacon Hills…” Derek trailed off. The silence stretched on, and in the quiet he ran his hand slowly up and down Stiles’ leg. Stiles tried to remain relaxed, to allow the werewolf to gather comfort and strength from him. After a moment, he continued, “I don’t feel like that anymore. I feel like I’m whole again. Almost. I don’t know, it’s hard to put into words.”

Testing the boundaries, Stiles asked, his voice hoarse, “Is Scott your Alpha?” 

“I don’t know who my Alpha is,” Derek admitted. He sounded far away, like he was lost in contemplation. “Maybe this is how Scott felt when he was first bit and we didn’t know about Peter.”

“But you feel a connection now,” Stiles proffered. “To who?”

The silence stretched on longer this time. But just like the afternoon he spent with Scott, this silence was comfortable. Comforting, even. As the lull stretched on, Stiles pulled a pillow under his head, kept his eyes closed, and felt his breathing even out. He was almost on the verge of sleep when Derek spoke.

“I guess, if you’re asking about Scott’s pack specifically, I feel something with Lydia. I don’t know if you can call it a bond, but it is there. Whatever it is, it’s not there for the others. Or Peter.”

Another lull, his fingers trailing up and down the back of Stiles’ calf. Then, he spoke.

“I feel a bond to Cora,” he whispered, like it was a closely guarded secret. “I feel one with your dad...and with you.”

Warmth flooded through Stiles’ chest unbidden.

“What does a pack bond feel like for you?” Stiles asked, his arms curled around the pillow he was holding. It was the safest question he could ask, unsure how he felt about Derek’s confession.

“Like something real,” Derek said softly. “Something I can count on.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, apologies for the delay in getting this posted! Last weekend I had to go turn my laptop into the Apple store to get the battery replaced and they didn't give it back to me for 5 days. And I finished the chapter this weekend but needed to give my lovely beta time to read my work (that was all written in a single delirious late night). I hope you enjoyed the next chapter in this journey and leave a comment if you like!

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to follow me at [my tumblr](http://cinematicnomad.tumblr.com/) where I post way too much and am always willing to answer questions.


End file.
